


Gods and Gossip

by Esloriath



Category: Original Work
Genre: Multi, Original Characters - Freeform, Original work - Freeform, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-02
Updated: 2015-06-02
Packaged: 2018-04-02 11:20:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 32,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4058080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esloriath/pseuds/Esloriath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fleeing his chaos-ridden home after losing his mother, Daniven enters the city of Valune hoping to find his younger brother. However, upheaval seems to have followed him in the form of a charming zealot, a displaced emperor, and the mad mind of Owain Boggs. Gods help him, he was already tired enough.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. This City Sucks(Even Worse Than Home)

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone, this is an original work of mine set in my own world. All characters, events, places, and concepts are the product of my own brain. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> (NOTE:Names are typically spelled phonetically, but it is worth noting that the 'V' is usually pronounced the same as 'Y.' Therefore, Daniven is pronounced "Dah-nee-yen" while Valune is "Yah-loon.")

“The Brotherhood of the Sun will tax us for all we have!”

The ringing of a bell announced the time in the city of Value. The busy central square before the Temple of Serlios thronged with crowds of people. Traders along the edge of the square cursed at gossiping citizens bumping into their stalls, a Constable roughly seized a young pickpocket, and the Priestesses within the Temple were nowhere to be seen. Had they appeared, the crowd would disperse; the rebel’s choice in location paid off, the Constables neglected to quell any commotion in front of the inactive Temple. Where was the City Watch?

The sun overhead beat upon the public buildings around the tall, gray Temple, mimicking the quaint style of the upper class homes. A single avenue led the exit of the square into mazes of curving cobblestone streets, with only dead-end alleys between the government offices and private trading businesses. The Spring of 586 arrived with a certain flair in the rolling hills of Valune, fanciful clouds dancing above the sprawling capital of the kingdom.

Why did the dark Priestesses of Serlios not apprehend the rebellious orator outside their doors? The crowd's murmured aggression against the tithes of the Brotherhood of the Sun – a rival Temple – had no bearing on their lives. According to the Head Priestess within the Temple of Serlios, the raw power of their god would long outlast the cult that worshiped three ancient sorcerers.

A Brother stood amongst a group of knights wearing the sunbeam-embroidered livery of his sect; he frowned and grumbled and spat in his heavy gold robes, but neglected to kill the rebel with sorcery lest he draw the attention of the favored of Serlios.

Groups of Court-serving Constables cluttered the square at random intervals with hands on their weapons, the telltale yellow baldric and cap combination intimidating the regular commonfolk nearby with sneers. Yet until the rebel – as everyone knew boiled beneath this man's skin in a talkative place such as Valune – uttered a word of treason, the Constables could not take him. Were the spectacle not on the front doorstep of the Temple of the most domineering god in all known pantheons, the steadily growing Constables would likely have attacked the man anyways.

Daniven arrogantly avoided the brushes of Low Race commoners in the close quarters, holding his gallant head high. The stupid speaker upon the steps was dead the moment either Constable or Brother found him alone.

“And when we are left with nothing in our pockets, homes taken with nothing but the streets for a home, where will the Brotherhood be?”

The Brotherhood priest among the knights scowled viciously, moving as though to deal with the rebel himself. Daniven smiled ruefully as a cold-faced knight with tawny hair spoke a word to make the priest pause. The knight looked as though he wished to be anywhere else, far from this crowded square full of the city's loudmouths. Valune snapped at the unwary like a flock of vultures, and those who paid it no heed would not long have a head to hang.

When Daniven laughed aloud at the priest's face, a nearby Constable – with an elaborately gilded tabard and silver encrusted hat – glanced over from among his fellows. He smirked above his crossed arms at the Valinthian swordsman's outlandish coloring – particularly his dark hair.

Daniven bristled. He prided himself on a desirable appearance that had drawn hordes of lovers. And now some pretentious high-ranked Constable of a Low Race dared to look down on him so! It was all he could do not to offer immediate challenge to assuage his insulted pride. He caught the title “Senior Constable” and resolved to avenge his angry pride when the chance arose.

“If the Brotherhood grows wealthier by the day, they will soon control all of the city,” the young rebel shouted, charismatic body pleading with the hearts of the people. “and our fair Valune will crumple against the tyranny of the Primate's sorcerers! I ask you, my fellows, what can survive of a city stolen by such bigotry and greed as this?! The people must act, or suffer the same fate as- as...”

The man, no more than a boy, glanced fervently around the clusters of citizens as though searching for amity among the scandalized watchers. Valune loved a good scandal.

His eyes found Daniven, and a brief intelligence crossed his features, like the sun through parting clouds.

“You, Valinthian!” He cried, stretching out a hand to indicate the galled man. “I ask you, of all here, what happens to a land in which corruption prospers? The crumbled fate of your Empire should serve as an example to all who witness the Brotherhood's growing power!”

Ruffled, Daniven glanced around as those nearest began whispering and snarling at him. Fools, the lot of them, heedless of their inferiority!

He heard the rumors of the Valinthian people spreading, countless snippets he'd heard from birth. Morbid in their colossal desires, unquenchable in their ambition to rule and conquer, treacherous to those “beneath” them. After the breaking of the Empire this reputation saw to the death of Valinthian survivors who'd fled their unstable home.

He glowered at the naive boy upon the steps, placed his hand upon his prized rapier. Those closest to him didn't back away, but their enmity grew stronger by the moment. He caught a murmur of something darker, then the crowd pressed in.

The rebel lost his audience. The escalating commotion grew starkly. Someone yelled speculation of a Valinthian plot, and the next man to speak cried for them to seize Daniven before he could ruin the city.

A Islander vigilante came forward, baring naked steel. Voices rose.

“Away, scum!” Daniven hissed. His comment heightened the rancorous group.

A series of events happened simultaneously.

The rebel vocally denounced the King's corrupt government. The crowd attacked Daniven. The Brother of the Sun raised his arms and all the clouds in the sky vanished. The floodgates shattered.

Daniven had no time to draw his sword, a shove of bodies and fists nearly driving him to the ground. If he fell, the growing riot would trample him to a bloody pulp. With all his strength he tried pushing his way through the hostile crowd. Someone screamed for a lynch.

The Constables tried for calm, shouting at the citizens. When the Senior Constable moved like a wolf, drawing his saber and slaying an inattentive woman in cold blood, the entire Constabulary present followed suit and quelled the crowd through death.

Daniven continued pushing for the mouth of the square; if he could only get to the open space of Black Avenue beyond, he could outrun any man alive. A stone-strong fist pummeled his slender form at the right, driving the furious man nearly to the ground. The nearby attackers took advantage of the moment, hands gripping him.

The crowd dragged the screaming and enraged Valinthian towards the Temple, intent on lynching him on its very steps for all to see.

Then the Brotherhood priest's spell came to fruition as a roar exploded from the sky and the rebel before the Temple and burst through his skin in a spray of blood. The crowd screamed, and a good half promptly forgot about Daniven amidst the killing Constables and Brotherhood sorcery.

As soon as the blood hit the Temple of Serlios, it vanished. The great doors of stone swung open and the Head Priestess Xilia emerged to watch the crowd spill its own blood. In her dark, ominous glory – which Daniven could not see above the heads of those taller than him – no man dared set foot on a single step of the Temple.

Among Priestess, Brother, and Constable, everyone worried for their own safety. Daniven was freed of the grasping hands, and began hurling himself through the masses.

A hundred-strong company of mounted Brotherhood knights appeared in the mouth of the square, horses shoulder-to-shoulder. A sunbeam standard flapped in the violent coastal wind, sunlight burnishing the bright steel of gold-clad knights. The points of lances pierced the burning skies, landing to the earth as the Brotherhood of the Sun charged, assisting the Constables in killing every man in the riot.

Daniven ran for an alley instead, the only escape route cut off by a mountain of armored men.

The Senior Constable, a mountain of calm in the tempest, noticed his flight and grinned. Dimples appeared on his face, eyes hard as lightning. Xilia did not move a finger to help anyone. But if anyone had touched her Temple in the slightest, every man there would die. Within those walls, a legion of women beneath the banner of Serlios steeped in their potency.

The alley between the Census Office and a company warehouse was not thronged with people, though some had escaped. Yet, as soon as the square emptied of the living, the law would root out every person hiding. Such a riot was a capital offense, perceived as treason against His Majesty.

Resting against the wall, Daniven dearly hoped his brother was not hidden among the masses in the great square, spying for his employers. He ignored the people sitting around, believing they would be spared – such fools! - and reached for handholds on the wall of the Census.

They scoffed at the crazy man climbing a building. Loose bricks made footholds, window ledges rested beneath his hands until Daniven hoisted himself onto the flat roof.

All beneath him, a carnage rested. Blood pooled beneath growing piles of human bodies, and Daniven felt no pity for the brutish Islanders who attempted to kill him. The Constables were rooting out those hiding in the alleys, the Brotherhood Company in strict formation to wait. The priest was gazing scornfully at Head Priestess Xilia, who'd not shifted an inch, but he still did not touch her Temple.

Behind the mounted Brothers of the Sun, a man sat upon an enormous roan destrier, the animal outfitted in tassels and bells. The man wore the Sunbeam, his robes and steel accents of extravagant decoration and a cloth-of-gold cloak streaming from his set shoulders. He exuded cold confidence, his serene face belying the destruction before him. A highly-ranked commander, most likely.

Then the man glanced up, spotting Daniven atop the Census. His tranquil face showed interest, and a slight smile. He visibly lifted a hand in greeting, but something about him disturbed the Valinthian, as though some evil lie beneath the happy face of that holy man.

So he left, eager to put the disaster as his back, and the dangerous men of Valune. Were he honest with his pride, Daniven would count himself among those men. He carefully moved atop the roofs of the city, afternoon heat reflected on the stones.

He needed to find his brother, Alviven. Even with his dextrous body, he was no match for his youngest sibling, who moved like water in the ocean. Alviven worked for the Unvardin, a mysterious organization whose claws snared areas of trade, smuggling, and violence; they knew everything everywhere, and would not hesitate to use it for their own gain. It had surprised everyone at home when Alviven had expressed his desire to leave and further his interests as an agent – the quiet young man never had conflict with anyone, and acted unbearably polite to everyone.

Daniven knew Alviven would not refuse to help him get settled; his adorably shy sibling had never been able to resist a request once he put on the appropriate expression.

News of the riot spread through the city. Family of the deceased cried for retribution to be brought to the offending parties by the grace of His Majesty. The people urged one another not to attend the Temple of Serlios, for their failure to help dozens of dead in front of their very building. No one wanted to worship with the Brotherhood of the Sun, either, so the Temple of Velt became the primary house of worship – both for their low tithes, and their peaceful doctrine.

In Valune, worship of an accepted god – mainly Serlios, the Sun Triad, or Velt, though folk often cursed and interjected with the names of illegal deities – was not optional. If someone did not attend a holy temple and pay their tithes, no citizen considered them respectable. If their peers did not lynch them, an offended clergy would. But even with that restriction, the fickle commons of Valune had the freedom to choose which god to worship above all others – all known gods were sacred and acknowledged, though not necessarily worshiped – causing a great deal of competition between the faiths. Only the Temple of Velt remained aloof from the politics of it.

The city was in uproar about the riot. Why did the rebel denounce the Brotherhood so, though he was not officially required to attend them? Why did the Constabulary of the King's Court help them? The City Watch had dealt with the Grand Justice of the Court at the time of the small revolt, but somehow lost their writ to patrol during the daytime, pushed then to sole night duty. The Constables, usually the hand of the Grand Justice to administer Court decrees, were given the daytime writ. Something was wrong in Valune, and no one had the faintest idea what.

The next morning, after an uncomfortably night on the roof of a brewer's shop, Daniven descended to the streets. He had nothing to his name but the distastefully unremarkable clothing on his back, his exquisite rapier – a gift – and ten coins of Valune national currency.

In a back street near the crowded markets, Daniven paused at the stall of a second-class baker and bought some flatbread, spending two coins on the less-than-fresh food. It stung, eating like a commoner, and he was ashamed to find himself hungry enough to do so. _How revolting._

He asked the vendor, a nondescript man in a rumpled apron, about the riot. “What happened at the Temple of Serlios yesterday?”

No one needed to know he had been there, and by rights should have died. No one did know, except that strange Brother and the Senior Constable.

“No one's really sure.” The baker said suspiciously. “Everyone present was sentenced to immediate death. The Constables, Brotherhood, and Temple of Serlios are all tight-lipped about what exactly caused it. But the Constables have been given the power to patrol during the daytime now.”

Two nearby Yellows – so nicknamed because of their baldrics and caps – stood in the doorway of a spice merchant, demanding to search his premises for illegal drugs.

“But the Primate was there, everyone knows.” The baker continued. The citizens of Valune loved to gossip. “Primate Olenor, y'know the priest who just bought the title Count? I heard he threatened to level the Temple of Velt if they did not agree to return former Triad worshipers.”

A passing woman wearing a bright red shawl overheard the conversation as she approached to buy bread. Her rough Low Race features – Daniven looked down his nose at her – brightened at the opportunity to chat.

“Rumor has it the Count's been visiting Senior Constable Vaeri lately.” She murmured with a wicked smile. Daniven nearly groaned aloud at her terribly lower-class pronunciation of the “v.” As his terrifying mother had forced onto him, “yuh,” not “vuh.” His father had not cared.

The baker grinned. “And my cousin says the Yellows only ever attend the Brotherhood of the Sun to worship the Triad. Don't suppose their tithes are high as ours.”

“You're kidding!” The woman exclaimed. “No one can afford to worship at their Temple. Velt is the way to go: kind priests, and a merciful god.”

“Silly woman!” The man scolded. “What good is Velt against those mad Yellows? Serlios can actually spare his Priestesses the power to fight.”

“And what good is fighting to working people, huh? The healing hands of Velt saved my firstborn, stupid man!”

With a huff over religious differences, the woman left to buy her bread elsewhere. Such was the case of most people in Valune, taking the power of words seriously.

“Have you seen a black-haired man anywhere, green eyes, about this high?” Daniven held his hand up, a little ways above his head. “I seem to have lost my brother.”

He smiled charmingly, feeling that his mannerisms were wasted on commoners such as this man. He refrained from letting it show.

“Quiet boy, isn't he?” The man sniffed. “He hangs around the Temple of Velt. If that's him you'd better go, with your heathen ways. I'd buy my bread back if I could, so long as it didn't go to some Velt-worshiper.”

“Euxine-damned Islander.” He cursed at the man. “Fools like you need to learn their place.”

Daniven made his way slowly towards the western end of the city, where the Temple of Velt faced the sea. He would ask of his brother, and find some ally in this dangerous city. If anyone found out about his presence at the riot...

He passed a trio of Brotherhood Priests and ducked his head, scowling furiously when a Islander scribe bumped into him whilst running out of a trading company's office. _Stupid common bumpkin._

Who was that strange Brother who'd surveyed the carnage before the Temple of Serlios with such peaceful countenance? The memory of that disturbing gaze intensified the sullen look on Daniven's face. Only a day in Valune, and he already had troubles In the Empire, every Islander in that crowd would have been flogged or executed, and Daniven compensated for his trouble; the divine duty of any ruler to keep his upper class safe failed to manifest yesterday.

Standing before the smooth-lined white stones of the Temple of Velt, Daniven stopped beneath the eaves of a tavern of middle-class patronage. Singing met his ears, the salty air draping silk across his face; a terrible heat emanated from the direction of the Temple. It stood at three stories, columns marking a path between themselves and the walls. Windows covered it, all shuttered, and a statue of some saint dominated the back courtyard, visible from the front. Buttresses lined every side but the front where a stained-glass window arched above the door in azure sheen.

Cautiously regarding the scene from near a group of men in their cups, Daniven witnessed a group of the Brotherhood of the Sun's priests standing at semicircular intervals with the utter stillness of ice spikes hanging from a window. Knights shoved passerby who drew too close, though very few did. Their steel breastplates held the embossing of the sun crest, matching the surcoats peeking from beneath and hanging near the knee.

Daniven only remembered the Brotherhood of the Sun as a small cult, but this... They were cursing the Temple of Velt! The commons should be stampeding the Brotherhood now, for daring to openly attack another Temple!

But the outcome of yesterday's riot would happen all over again, the riot Daniven should not have witnessed.

An older, graying priest rose his voice above the others and the heat amplified. The door of the Temple grew molten red.

With superstitious misgivings he turned the way he came, eager to vacate the area.

As he moved into the open street facing away from the sorcery at his back, a horse's shoulder sent him plummeting to the ground.

“Son-of-an-Islander scum!” Daniven cursed, drawing angry looks at the comment.

Above him sat the Senior Constable, smirking beneath his fine hat and golden hair. He was no Islander.

“Figured your lot was good and dead, _Valinthian_.” He drawled. “I believe we've unfinished business, after _yesterday._ ”

Daniven rose, hand upon his rapier. “I don't know what your talking about. My kind thrives.”

“Thrives?” He laughed, keeping one hand on the reins of his horse to draw a shortsword. “Your Empire is dead, with only petty Houses left to squabble over the pieces.”

_And out of the ashes will rise another Empire, stronger than before. You wait and see._ Daniven took a few steps back, the Yellow urging his horse to tail the movement. “What could an outsider such as you want with a Valinthian?”

The horse's tail swished, the Constable leaning back at ease. “Don't kid yourself. We both know what happened yesterday. We both know where you just so happened to be.”

And it was a capital offense.

“Did you mean being attacked by commoners?” Daniven hissed. “Those who dared to apprehend their superiors, too powerful to be stopped by the King's men?”

The man's hand tightened on the sword. A few pedestrian's had stopped to watch the scene, eager to see a Valinthian accosted by a Constable.

“I am not the King's.” The Senior Constable murmured violently. “I am a servant of the Courts. In the name of the High Courts of Valune and Euxine, bringer of the state's Justice, I, Senior Constable Vaeri, command you to come with me.”

More Constables approached from nearby, weapons in hand. One man had a crossbow, rare for this part of the world. Daniven back away, brandishing his rapier with a snarl.

“You've no power over me.” He refuted. “What proof do you have of anything?”

“My word is proof.” He motioned for his men to restrain the Valinthian.

Before anyone could touch him Daniven backed into someone; hands caught him by the shoulders. He turned his head and behind him stood a knight wearing the sunbeam crest upon his armor, helmet covering all features. Daniven struggled.

“I will not be treated this way!” He thundered, eyes dark with rage. “Unhand me immediately.”

Vaeri frowned pointedly at the knight still gripping the small Valinthian. “This one is to be executed in the Courts, Brother.”

The knights near the Temple of Velt had noticed their comrade, drawing near. They shoved the gawkers, threatening violence should they not continue on their way.

“He matches the Primate's description. The Valinthian is wanted by the Brotherhood.” The Brother said, voice deep and menacing.

“I'll go nowhere!” Daniven cursed, breaking free of the lax grasp and turning on the man. From every side he saw only Yellows and Brothers of the Sun, all eager for his blood. Vaeri sat upon his horse behind the ring of men surrounding him. When a Constable surged forward with a spear Daniven sidestepped and darted forwards with the speed of a practiced fencer and planted his rapier between the ribs of the man who dared attack a Valinthian. _Just as well that such a fool should perish._

He slumped to the ground and Daniven nearly danced around in his efforts to stay further away from the ring of Yellows and Brothers. The Senior Constable grew angry as a storm when his man fell.

But Daniven was facing the Constable leader when that same Brotherhood knight punched him at full strength in the back of the head with a steel gauntlet. He crumpled with an exhale and his rapier slid from his hand. Dazedly he looked up at the Senior Constable and the knight saying something to one another. A Brother took his sword; Daniven faintly protested but found that he could not speak above the blood roaring through his head.

“The Primate plans to make use of him. I am sure he would request that you retract your formal command.”

Vaeri grumbled. “You may have him if the Primate will completely lift the tithe from my men.”

“You have my word that it shall be done, or the Valinthian will be returned to you.”

Daniven could feel hands lifting him from the arms in a bruising hold, and another vicious strike to the head banished all consciousness from him.

The floor beneath Daniven thrummed with a sickly, pulsing warmth that mirrored the cracking shatters of agony in his head, the hazy thoughts stirring with the pulsing of blood. His clothing uncomfortably twisted around his torso as he shifted, hands lazily scrabbling at the soft floor. A chalky substance met his fingertips, dusky light through his eyelids. The popping of torches surrounded him and his ears faintly registered voices.

His his eyes opened in a slow cascade of gold, he first noticed the stones directly before him, the silver paint on his hand. He blinked at it, unable to form cognizance beneath the bursting in his skull.

“...riot. He'll have no choice anyways!”

A smooth laugh, deep and kind. “Who can say? But I wanted him marked by my priests to be sure.”

He felt the source of the pain, touching the dry stickiness of blood. When his fingers pressed against the raw flesh a pitchy yelp escaped his throat like a wounded child. Eyes crawled up his spine.

“He's awake.” Padded footsteps approached. Large hands gently lifted his head, bringing a smiling face into sight but Daniven could not place the familiarity. Anger enveloped him. How dare someone grin at his pain!

“You struck him too roughly.” The man snapped over his shoulder at an armored knight leaning against the gilded, sloping wall. The room had no windows but glowing torches bathed it in orange. Symbols of silver paint covered the floor and Daniven frowned to realize it was also smeared on his clothing.

The man holding his head – as though comforting a child – had long, pale hair and a serene face but for the coal of his eyes. He had thrown his hood back. Where had Daniven seen him before? He could hardly place any memories or thoughts at the moment, but knew of their existence nonetheless.

“Sincerest apologies for such brutality.” He said. His wry smile left doubts as to that sincerity.

His face was too close. “Such harm would not have come to you had you merely complied with the will of my men.”

Daniven grimaced. “And I suppose a _Valinthian_ would be left unharmed, considering public opinion?”

“But of course! I find myself in need of a particular _service_ that cannot be done by men in uniform. You will do nicely.”

“I shall not.” He meant to sound threatening in that moment, but the words appeared weakly. “Who are you to speak to me in that manner?”

A menacing grew beneath the smile as though some evil had entered the room. “I am Count Olenor and Primate of the Brotherhood of the Sun, holiest of the Triad. And who are you to put on such airs?”

He tried to pull his head away, but the effort brought further pain. “I am Daniven, First Marshal to the Lord of-”

But he wasn't. He ran away. The Primate raised an eyebrow at the telltale pause but did not ask.

“Just Daniven, then. A fair name for such a pretty thing.”

He jerked his head away then, heedless of his injury. “I am leaving.”

When he moved the bloody gash sent shocks down his spine and the Count's hand on his shoulder halted it. He narrowed his eyes.

“I don't think you understand me, Valinthian. You've no choice.”

Daniven spent the next few weeks in excruciating boredom, confined to a cell. It was such as on a monk might use, with walls of six feet in breadth around every side and a low, rock-hard bed in the corner. No other features distinguished the “room” save for a sconce beside the locked door, not even a single window marred the surfaces of grey stone. He remained there day and night, though he could not be sure if he truly laid to sleep at twilight; with no light to guide his instincts, there was no way to tell the time of day. He lay on the bed mostly, staring at the ceiling above, or paced the perimeter in tandem with regrets of leaving the Empire. No one back home would have dared to take a member of a highborn family captive in such a way! That Vele ingrate would pay for the slight on his betters!

His head hurt as well, the throbbing injury threatening to split his skull open. When walked, the rocking motion brought thrums of ill feeling to his stomach from the agony, which consumed him. But it was worse when he lay – thought it hurt less – because with the lack of pain to occupy his mind, the dreamlike quality of the cotton between his ears pulled the ceiling of the cell into images of things better left forgotten. The faces of those he'd disappointed frowned at him.

He thought of Isden, his idol and the man to give him everything in life. His home of many years, position, all that he was he owed to the Lord of Aerudon, the man he deserted in the midst of a campaign. Daniven hadn't remained long enough to learn the reaction. Was Isden angry? Did he curse him for such flight? He knew his own brother would be vengeful, so righteous and honorable was Amain, and so devoted to the small man he wronged. Daniven felt that he could never return for what he did, and his homeland had never seemed so far away as it did in that small cell.

But if Isden had created his heart from nothing, his mother had instilled all the culture of the Empire into her son. She had reclaimed him as a child from his father to return him to the place he belonged, and given him all the proper ubringing of a Valinthian gentleman, and son of two great Families. There were four noble houses in the Valinthian Empire and each contained two Families that carefully intermarried for the desired characteristics – with the exception of the Tulunn, but they were far beneath him – and Daniven and his brothers were the fruit of an illicit union between a mother and father of separate houses. He was from Aethre of house Coronel in coloring, dark haired and golden eyed – the closest Valinthian representation to their Valkish roots – but also a Caedron of house Aelios, making him a cousin of Isden.

He would not confess to being from Caedron, ever. It was crude, the “Caedron Crime” in which the family had supported the traitor sister of Emperor Telus IV in the civil war. For that conflict had presented the perfect opportunity for Vorain Sthairn to burn a trail across the Empire, execute and imprison thousands of people, and kill the rightful Emperor, taking the capital for himself. No, he could not owe himself to such a cursed line!

And in that cell, history was the only thing to occupy himself with, disturbing as it was. Strip away the pretty armor and only ambition remained in those tales to mock him with the failures of his predecessors. He supposed the same happened often with Amain, and that was the reason why he devoted himself so fully to the cause of Aerudon – an attempt to serve their father's house and redeem the family.

_Well, so much for that. Whatever success he's had I've ruined._ He thought.

During the time of Daniven's confinement the only social contact came from a Knight from the Brotherhood, the same fool who caused his head that injury and turned him over to the Primate. The ever-helmeted man was apparently punished for his roughness by bringing the Valinthian's mediocre meals and plain water. But Daniven, in a purely Valinthian style, refused to eat for suspicion of poison. The brute would enter quietly and place the nourishment upon the bed, then stand by the door until it became apparent that the prisoner would not eat. He would then remove himself and the untouched meal from the room.

It was after a day or two of Daniven's stern refusal that the Knight did not immediately leave within moments of placing the food upon the bed. It was like a showdown between wolf and panther, the two men cautiously listening for the other to begin. Daniven could not help his outrage at the days of being ignored. He straightened his old, still dirty clothes and raised his chin defiantly.

“Care to speak today? Or will this be like all the rest? You know, that Serlios-damned knot on my head is still here!”

“Don't be childish.” The Knight said, removing his helmet. His face was tan and filled with a pair of striking icy eyes, but he had the tawny hair of a Islander that brought a sneer to Daniven's face. “It is a cruel world and you'll not be spared.”

“Then why do you speak today?”

“Because the Primate means to use you and I wish to warn you.” The man said carefully, face seemingly incapable of a softer expression. “He will appear kind at first, perhaps even admirable. But he is a greedy man, and one that will destroy anything for his own goals.”

“Is that not what most people do?”

“There is no piety in his soul, because he believes in his own grace!” The Knight thundered. “He will uproot all the gods of our forefathers and replace them with himself.”

Daniven froze. Surely not? Serlios, Euxine, Velt, Esvius, Estoran... Those were the gods that made the world what it was, that hurt, helped, created, destroyed, and loved; from whom magic was in pious blood and all the world's kingdoms found their beginning. He himself was not fully devoted, but did indeed feel the pull of superstition and love for his family's god. But he was loathe to voice his disbelief and distress to a Islander.

“He'll not have the strength to unmake the Temple of Serlios. Even if Valune's religion falls, the world will hold.”

The Knight glared furiously. “I'm trying to help you. The Primate is a cruel man with no sense boundaries, and will not hesitate to put you to torture.”

“And I'll not allow it! This warning from a _Islander_ is in vain, considering I already had no intention of submitting to someone so beneath me as that priest!” Daniven scowled back just as heatedly, stepping closer to the larger man.

The Knight reeled back at the racial insult, shock crossing his face to be replaced by an ardent disgust. “A _Valinthian_ in captivity has no right to look down upon a Knight! I have worked for my position in life and cradled my honor with sword and shield! What did you do to earn the clothes upon your back? Spread your legs?”

Daniven saw red at the last slur. No, he did not share the debauchery of his country's reputation, nor did he ever plan to! His hand unconsciously drifted to where his sword would have been had the Brotherhood not taken it.

“Commoners do not _have_ honor to protect, you filthy lowborn mongrel!” He hissed, pretty face scrunched up in anger. “I'll have you know that I have defended the _honor_ of my house since my hand could hold a sword, proven in combat!”

“Then why is a Valinthian in Valune, when he should be defending his homeland? Where is the honor in running from an Empire in need, _boy_?” The man demanded.

“It's no business of yours!” Daniven turned away, guilty dropping into his stomach at the reminder of his failure. How dare that commoner insult him so, when he was more than likely _twice_ the age of that Islander! Sure, it was not visible, but Islanders aged at an improper speed anyways.

And why did a Knight in Brotherhood attire care to warn a prisoner of his temple, one that he himself had taken? He regretted returning to this city, for nothing made sense any longer. The peacekeepers were behaving terribly, the Temple feuding was at its worst, and the King had no care for the protection of the highborn.

The Knight visibly composed himself. “Whether you heed my warning or not is of no further consequence to me, but the Primate will be taking care of your stubborn attitude.”

He viciously replaced his helmet and turned upon his heel. The door slammed behind him, seeming to rattle the cell with its force.

True to the knight's word, a light tap later ocurred at the door before it was opened by a white-robed Brotherhood initiate carrying food. As he sat it on the bed he was followed by the Primate.

Daniven subconsciously drew his knees up and scowled from his seat on the bed. He did not speak but rather waited for the intruder to begin the conversation.

“Daniven.” Olenor greeted courteously as he sat in a chair the initiate brought forward. “I hope you are doing well.”

“No, I am not.” He said sullenly.

“How droll,” he commented with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “but I fear that this is necessary until your situation has been taken care of. I do hate to leave loose threads lying about.”

“Then explain the situation, if it is truly so difficult to see to.”

He dropped the smile. “Not until you've eaten.”

They paused to stare at one another. Olenor, with his loose hair and extravagant robes, far exceeded the Valinthian but the sheer fire in Daniven's delicate features could be seen through the detriments of his current predicament. Nonetheless, his lack of nourishment and difficulty sleeping showed in his shadowed eyes and rather weak movements.

Olenor leaned back in his seat and waved a hand at the food. “I will not have you starve yourself as an escape from me. Eat.”

“Not unless someone else tastes it first.” Daniven demanded.

“Impossible as poisoning a Valinthian!” Olenor laughed. “I suppose the expression is true, then. Is it true that the highborn do not take meals with their family?”

He scowled. “It is improper to gorge oneself in the company of others.”

The Primate gave a cocky quirk of his brow and waved the initiate forward to taste the food. After seeing the lack of death on his part, Daniven continued. “I will eat, but not in front of you.”

The Vele chuckled; it was an irritating and incredulous sound. “No, I will see you keep to your word.”

He didn't _want_ to eat in front of this too-calm, too-personal man, but Daniven could see from the look on his face that to refuse would bring about... undesirable consequences. So with a grimace on his face he began to slowly eat. It was humiliating, and highly uncomfortable for him – a person accustomed to eating in private as per his culture – to be forced to do so under such watchful eyes.

After a moment of gloating, Olenor began to speak in those low and cool tones. “You were nearly taken three days ago by the Constables, who insisted that your presence at the riot should be given proper justice – and my man barely managed to sieze you, at a rather high price I might add.”

“The Yellows had a reason,” Daniven cut in with narrowed eyes. “but why does your Brotherhood want me?”

“An associate of mine has need of his kinsmen for a task.” He said airily. “But that is none of your concern as of now. I am busy rectifying our agreement with the Constabulary.”

“Does the Grand Justice know of these deals his men are cutting?” Daniven asked.

Olenor shifted. “No. And I expect it to stay that way, else I shall know who to punish.”

Daniven didn't like that tone, nor the bitter taste it left in his mouth. From the way the Primate spoke, he expected the Valinthian to remain beneath his thumb for a long time – too long, as far as he was concerned. Damn this entire city! Daniven hated this place – hated Olenor, hated that uncouth knight, hated the Yellows, and hated the Islander scum beneath his feet! Why couldn't he have sailed to Myrandia instead, to live among more decent folk?

“So I am left to sit in the dark whilst you make deals behind my back?” He hissed, shoulders set. “While you barter my person?”

“That is the idea of it.” He laughed. “But you will be free to worship in the Temple to ease the monotony.”

Daniven abruptly stood, arms crossed. “My family god is Serlios. I do not recognize the Triad as holy.”

Olenor leaned forwards now, palms together with a dark look on his face at the ensuing theological argument. “And why should any of the five-pointed star be considered holy? Because they came from another world in ancient times to squabble? The Sun Triad did great deeds with the nature of this world, and for that deserve more than the pantheon.”

“The Triad would have made the world a barren desert.” Daniven shot back. “Serlios gave life by mere presence. Stand within fifty feet of any priestess and you shall feel but a droplet of that.”

“You will amend that folly,” The Primate's face was twisting into an angry thing. “along with the other heathens of this land, once my Brotherhood has done its work.”

“I want my sword back.” Daniven said suddenly.

“Unlikely. Where on earth would a baseborn Valinthian get such a fine piece? And why would a baseborn Valinthian have a family god?” The sarcasm was heavy as thick rain.

He flushed as Olenor continued. “I would have the truth of your person, though you treat it as though it were embarrassing. You can only be from one of your county's great families.”

Or from the impure union of two separate Houses. If a mysterious Valinthian truly would attempt to make use of Daniven, he could never omit part of his origin – another Valinthian could tell from his very features that he was no pureblooded Coronel. He would be caught in any lie and so he would give as little information as he could.

“I am from a great family.” He conceded, fighting the bile in his throat. He offered no more. “Why is it so important?”

“Because it is easier to blackmail people when you know about them?” Olenor smirked.

Such arrogance! Such impudence! How dare he admit to blackmailing! The action seemed far less uncouth to Daniven when done in silence.“Leave me be.”

“No. We've business. You see, my associate has a few unlikely tasks to complete in Valune before he takes his leave. Unfortunately these tasks will draw the attention of undesirables – namely the City Watch. Perhaps the odious Temple of Serlios, or even the upper government.”

“And what has that to do with-”

“I will get to it if you are silent!” Olenor snapped, enjoying the moment. “My associate feels that his safety is easily guaranteed if I happen to 'set loose' another Valinthian in the city – and I just so happen to possess such a man in my very own Temple.”

“No.” He stood, backing away. “I am not an animal to serve as bait.”

Olenor followed, his hand hovering dangerously over his own sword. “I will state this bluntly. Do as I say or I shall hand you to the Courts for execution. If you are lucky, they might allow me to dispose of you.”

The reality of the situation stung. Daniven gaped and glared and shook his head, but nothing changed. He would truly have to obey the will of this man, or cast his life aside. The Primate observed in amusement as he came to terms with the demand and struggled to calm himself.

“Good.” The man praised. “Let us send you on a task, shall we?”

 

 

Daniven plucked at the Sunbeam on his clothing in severe distaste as he waited in the Temple courtyard and glared at passerby. No one met his eye, as though he didn't exist. The Brotherhood clothing make his stomach turn – wearing the mark of another felt like a sick form of ownership, and he wanted no part of that.

A strong figure strode into the view of the courtyard in armor and cloak, moving with a powerful purpose - like watching a thunderstorm approach in full bloom. Daniven scowled when he recognized the face of the Islander assigned earlier to babysit him, not to mention the man who'd left the gaping hole in the back of his head with a stupid fist.

The knight made no motion of knowing him, or even remembering him at all as he stopped at him with a stony face. "Well, Valinthian, it seems the Primate is sending you on pretty errands now. Yet what do you wait for here?"

Daniven sniffed, his nose in the air. "A bumbling idiot to ensure I do not flee the city. Though the sorcery of the Brotherhood is unlikely to allow it anyways."

He paused in his words to stare meaningfully at a nearby Brother, who made no face back. "But that is hardly your business, Islander. Shouldn't you be busy kissing Olenor's boots?"

The insult left the Knight unaffected, serving only to ruin Daniven's already foul mood. The man responded. "I am sent to keep you out of trouble. So like a child you are, always sticking your nose into the fire. I suppose I shall have to prevent yourself bumbling about the city and knocking over vendor's stalls. Let's go."

Mouth gaping comically, Daniven watched as the Knight turned and began walking at top speed as though wishing to lose him. He caught up easily, arms crossing as he tried futiley to ignore the man's presence.

"What is your errand?" Came the question. Daniven huffed.

"None of your concern. Business with the Grand Justice."

"Oh?" The Knight laughed. "The man who wants you dead? Aren't you brave!?"

Daniven didn't grace the comment with a response. He followed the route the Knight was making across town to the Courts, even though he knew Myrandar Alley was the faster path. Although, he snickered inwardly, any path crossing Myrandians was a thousand times slower due to their frolicking. The weather was overcast and gloomy, air hanging listlessly across the buildings. Clouds swirled and drifted in a grey mess, covering the sun like a heavy overcoat.

They soon reached the Courts, a traditional Valune building converted into a more modern structure. Multiple small, tall towers hovered about one another, connected by thin alcoves and paths among gardens. No doubt the new fancy flowers and gilded doors were a product of Olenor's corruption. So lawful and just these men were!

They entered through the main tower and Daniven left the Knight in his tracks to approach the Islander at the desk with a haughty face.

"I have business with the Grand Justice." He announced. A nearby worker snorted at the attendant's astonishment.

"You and everyone else in the city." The attendant laughed. "But that doesn't mean you get to see him, now does it? Besides, he's at work in the courtroom now."

Daniven drew himself up at the ridicule even as he could feel the Knights amusement behind him. "It is the business of the Brotherhood."

He pulled a signet ring from his pocket, pure silver with a great golden sun upon it. He sneered. "And it is an urgent appointment that was made previously. I am sure the criminal in the court can wait a few more moments before he is sentenced to an execution."

The attendent's mouth dropped, but he didn't stop even as Daniven snapped at the worker who previously laughed at his statements. "Show us to the Grand Justice."

Daniven's tone was one of intent and had the man automatically obeying before he could think twice. Smirking, he followed the man as his companion fell in step beside him, no longer amused.

"You see," he commented to the Knight. "I know how these people work."

"They don't."

"Exactly." He sighed. Daniven glanced at the paintings on the wall as they were asked to wait outside the Justice's office. He blinked as his vision went fuzzy for a moment and he realized he was swaying before catching himself on the wall. His brow furrowed. That had never happened to him before.

He looked up and realized that the man had seen what happened and had a pensive, odd expression on his face. "You aren't in good health, Valinthian."

"My health is perfectly fine." He shot back. But he still scolded himself for showing such weakness in a public place. It bothered him. He always had good health, so it was fine. He thought it was.

He turned slowly, avoiding the Knight's eyes, as footsteps approached. Trailing the worker who led them, the Grand Justice was an extremely tall man in casual - yet exceedingly fine - clothing. His doeskin gloves were shoved into the breast pocket of his shirt and small spectacles rested on his straight nose. Justice Venesk was a Vele, pale and light, like most of the non-Islanders in Valune, but his sharp eyes held nothing of the faraway look so characteristic to that race. He smiled almost dotingly at the visitors.

"I see my friend has sent me some visitors. Let us bring this inside my office, away from prying ears." He looked meaningfully at the worker who scampered away. "My employees are encouraged to keep their ears open, but it becomes tiresome at points."

They followed him into a cluttered office. In the midst was a desk of light wood, finely cushioned chairs, tapestries and shelves of files and books. A scale sat upon the desk, meant as much as a symbol as a means for counting money. Behind the desk an engraved golden place hung upon the wall, Euxine's face the centre of the art. Daniven's perusal caught the Justice's eye.

"A forbidden goddess, of course." He murmured. "But His Majesty considers the lady of just rule to be welcome in the Courts. But that is not why you are here, Valinthian. I do believe my Senior Constable had your name pending for a writ."

Daniven looked at him for a long time before speaking. "I am not on speaking terms with any of your men, least of all someone so important as a Senior Constable."

His sarcasm didn't go unnoticed but he continued. "And I am here to deliver this, not to be sentenced for something I did not do."

He drew an envelope from his pocket and presented the signet ring as well. The Justice took the items and sat to leisurely look upon them, leaving the two others to stand and wait. Finally he looked up as though to dismiss them, but ended up making conversation.

“So what does bring a Valinthian into the way of my Senior Constable?” He asked, making no mention of the letter but stroking it absently. “I was strongly suggested to put you to hang.”

Daniven looked around before answering. “I don't think your men like me very much. I was walking about, minding my own business when this Senior Constable ran me down with his horse and attempted to seize me. It is the right of a free man to resist arrest without a warrant in Valune, and so I did.”

“You killed one of my men.” Venesk stated flatly. “That is not the right of a free man, even here.”

“I defended myself!” He retorted.

The Grand Justice half-smiled at that. “There is no just self-defense when one speaks of your kind – you would have hung in my Courts.”

“Why you-” Daniven began, but halted sharply in his speech. His mind was a blank slate. What was he going to say? He seemed to have completely forgotten the word he wanted even as his mouth had already started to form it. He could feel the eyes of the Knight bearing down upon him. Venesk raised an eyebrow.

“What were you going to say?”

“I don't remember.” Daniven breathed imperceptibly, and it was true.

“I believe we were about to leave, my lord.” The Knight said with no emotion. “I wish you a good day.”

Then he bowed slightly and grasped the Valinthian's small arm with a rash hand and pulled him from the room, making to leave.

Daniven should have done something – why had he just allowed himself to be pulled? He watched the armored shoulders in front of him and listlessly followed along. The hard face turned to him with a furrowed brow.

“There is something wrong with you.” He stated, brooking no argument. “This is twice today you've lost yourself. You need a healer or a Priest.”

Daniven thought of the Brotherhood and scoffed. The statement was amended. “A true Priest.”

“Tell me,” he said, “if you've such little regard for the Brotherhood, why do you join with them as you do? Why do you cozy up to their allies with 'my lord!' and 'good day'?”

His question was infuriatingly brushed aside. “I will not be steered in another direction. I do not know your people, nor do I know if this is a common occurrence for you. Are you accustomed the odd behavior of today? I've seen the same countenance in injured men.”

No, he did not typically forget himself in the midst of thoughts or sentences. But Daniven yet again continued with his own topics.

“This way is faster.” He moved them towards Myrandar Alley.

The Knight was cautious, but followed with the direction. “The Alley?”

“Have you never been here?” Daniven asked as the summer sun caught on windows and flagpoles. “Myrandar Alley is a quick route to any destination.”

Well, so long as there were no Myrandians in it...

They passed beneath the eaves of a great cloth banner hung between the two large buildings forming the Alley and into the crowded and lovely back road. The quiet Veles loitered and chatted and lazed about their bright doorways and flowerpots. The sky was barely visible between the tops of the tall, cramped structures and the crowd before them moved at a nearly nonexistent pace.

“And how is this supposed to be quick?” The Knight demanded in surprise.

Daniven looked around the Alley and laughed wickedly, a mischievous gleam on his smooth face. “Haven't you met a Myrandian before? They are always late and always slow.”

He hummed snidely as the Knight saw the path behind them was also full of Myrandians casually going about their business as if time didn't exist. Even the wind seemed to blow slower in the Alley.

“How can you be laughing?” The Knight asked. “We'll be in here at least an hour trying to get through!”

“Olenor can wait for another hour.” Daniven smirked. He made note of everything in the Alley, maybe something that could get him away from his 'bodyguard.' His attention was caught by loud laughter and shouts at the other end of the Alley and the sound of hooves.

And then riding towards them was a group of men on horseback, _racing_ down the most cramped street in all of Valune. The man in front was trim, ash-blond, and positively booming with laughter as he gracefully shoved his steed faster.

“I expect you'll owe me more after this one!” He yelled and smiled blindingly.

Then the riders were upon them and both Daniven and the Knight had to throw themselves aside to avoid a collision. One of the riders lost control of his horse and crashed into a fruit stall, sending the immediate area into utter chaos.

People were yelling at the rider, fruit was scattered about the ground, everyone ramming into one another – the blond man was already far away, still enormously amused. Daniven watched the Knight busy himself to keep from a trampling and he moved before he was aware of deciding to.

He slid between a pair of angry Myrandians and out of the Knight's sight, faster and faster until he hit a truly brilliant speed, dodging and sprinting past people in his desperation to escape. He nearly laughed aloud at the ease of it. How foolish of Olenor to allow someone like him, so clever and quick, to walk freely! The other end of the Alley loomed ahead, then he could move even quicker without obstacles. Freedom, right ahead, and he could taste its sweetness!


	2. The Broken Tower

The courtyard was ancient, situated in the western side of Valune. To the west, a line of stone fishermens' homes blocked the view of the docks breaking upon the sea. The smell of fish and fresh bread were a commonplace of the west wind, carrying the dreams and lives of Valune spirits that had long since fled to that ocean. When that breeze hit the courtyard it was as though songs of stone and light played upon the crest of the gray brick wall that shielded the park. The voices of seafoam and instruments of coral keys climbed that eight-foot wall, crawling down to the bitten and coarse grass and played across tree stubs, rough marble benches, patches of rocks, and the occasional headstone. When the west wind blew at night one could almost see the gangly form of a Valune warrior mourning among the epitaphs, with fire burning across his painted skin.

The east held busy streets of homes and merchants, civilization infusing its wind to rival the west. The only buildings around the courtyard did not hunch close, seemingly too afraid of what lay within, for in the midst of the park rose a tower of weathered limestone. It was round, with a single door of heavy rock in the side and the flat roof was walled with timber. The birds would see a trapdoor if they flew overhead. In the sides of the edifice were carvings melted into the stone. It was impossible to interpret the gentle swirls, rapid slashes and eyelike voids that crawled towards the heavens.

It was a night of the east wind, low and humid and with a hefty calm. The clouds hunkered at the lower peripheral of the sky, clear stars pressing against the city like a flower in the pages of a lady's book. Torchlight shone from the hands of the City Watch standing by the single west-facing gate, hushed voices rising in trepidation. They watched with superstitious eyes as the Priestesses of Serlios padded throughout the courtyard and around the tower. Xilia herself was there, glittering eyes shining in the harsh contrast of darkness, fire, and stars. A frown of her painted lips created a heady displeasure around her stuffily cloaked form. Sheriff Achard stood beside her in wariness and hooked his thumbs in his sword belt.

Amalia herself stared up at the tower and gripped her staff tightly. The Valune spirits did sing that night despite the absence of the seawind. For the zenith of the tower had completely broken off, baring its single-staircase spiraling inside to the air. The tower had been a mausoleum once, but no one had known until this scene had appeared, scattering the tower's topmost residence into bonepiles strewn across the crunchy grass. The proportions of the Valune bones were odd and outlandish, rattling their own songs in the wind. The stone door was slightly ajar but no one had yet entered.

"Serlios preserve us." Amalia bowed her head. "For this desecration of their ghosts will catch their god's attention."

She spoke as though in prayer, her lungs calling the magic of Serlios. The sensation hurt her throat like drinking magma or exhaling steam, a ball of fire sitting low in her chest. The voice from her mouth was not her own, but a deep rasp – the power of her god was not meant for this body, but some brave few must accept the responsibility. The air from her mouth steamed.

"Was this building not closed to the commons?" Xilia asked. Amalia composed her face and drifted closer.

"It was, your Eminence." Sheriff Achard answered. "But my men found it this evening. We cannot locate a secular trail, but the Watch still trusts to the skill of Serlios."

The Head Priestess shifted and the metals hanging inside the circle atop her staff chimed. "And rightly so. There are traces of magic here, but it is Valune magic released when the tower broke."

Amalia smelled the air, calling on her god's power to enhance it. The scent of skin was cold in her nostrils and the long crest on her arm faintly stung. She followed the skin, hills, and iron to the door with slow steps upon the dead grass. Star and torch fought on the limestone surface to tease memories of her Temple forwards, smoke and curtains mirroring behind her face.

She touched the door with a bare hand and focued on the identity of the last man to touch that spot, desensitized to the pain in her skull. All gifts came with a price, especially those not meant for her. Amalia could not see his appearance but she could feel his hand beneath the skin of hers, touching the starlight on the door. His blood was rare in this land.

"A Valinthian opened this door. When he forced it, the top of the tower was destroyed. We should soon resite these bones."

The Head Priestess's robes moved as she strode to Amalia, followed by the Sheriff. "What do you see?"

The headache intensified. "I can feel his blood. There is no image, so this Valinthian's lineage must be potent enough to allow for no individual identity."

Xilia knelt to touch the door and Amalia respectfully backed away. Her hand was red and bruised. Her brother, a Knight, would disapprove if he saw it, but would not dare to make a Priestess bandage herself.  
"He did not find what he searched for." Xilia announced, standing. "Amalia, ascend the stairs."

Amalia pushed the door open with great difficulty, her arms requiring extra fortification; it strained her muscles, and the skin of her arms visibly bubbled with the surging of inhuman muscle beneath. A grainy sound of sliding accompanied the steps of her shoes as she entered. The entirety of the tower's inside was a spiral staircase. The outer wall was carved like the outside skin, but the inner column was glass. Bones stood upright, completely visible, in tattered silk and brasssy armor and masks. The Valune had fame for the importance of masks in their culture, but the language was no longer spoken. The necks and limbs were long, but the torso, hands, and feet were short.

She turned her attention to the steps and steadily climbed. Like a coiled serpent she echoed, until she reched the gaping sky atop. Rubble crumbled beneath her feet. The top was like a wall of sand, draining from the top into a waterfall of steps. There was nothing of the destroyer present.

Amalia noticed a mask fallen upon the floor, having dropped fom the corpse in that section of glass. She picked up the painted wooden object.

"The Valinthian left no other marks." She told Xilia.

"There was mention of a Valinthian at that riot, and an attempted lynch. " The Head Priestess mused. "But no further news of him. I do not know if the crowd or the constabulary killed him."

Achard gripped a torch. "There's more than one Valinthian in Valune. But if we keep an eye on those we come across, further sacrilege can be prevented."

"True." Xilia took the wooden mask from Amalia's sickly white hand. "Old Valune towers and tombs are closed for a reason. Even this simple opening can have undesirable consequences."

She handed the mask back to Amalia. "We will examine this in greater detail at the compound."

The strange-looking Priestess turned the object over in circles to examine it closer. She stood near the murmuring pair and stared at the stars, the gods bearing down upon all of Valune.

So many simple people in the city, paying their tithes, working their jobs, uncomprehending of the spiritual weight that hung overhead and threatened to fall upon them all with blood and death. These people had no idea of the burden on the shoulders of the holy. Often, Amalia imaginedherself as part of the few that held the sky in place, taking the inhuman power of Serlios into her own body that the masses would not suffer for it.

In a way, it made her better than the worshippers whom she protected from Serlios, but then she would look up at the gods and feel smaller than ever, only a part the safeguard. She had great appreciation for priests of the other Temples who held up Velt, Euxine, or Estoran so that she could bear her own god. The Brotherhood of the Sun did not hold gods, but added the weight of the dead to the sky; for that Amalia could never make peace with the Brotherhood. She would have long ago punished such insolence, but had heeded the command of Xilia – who held far more power than she herself. For the raw power of her god needed many vessels to hold it at bay, and because of that great contribution – and its accompanying strength – the upper echelions of the Temple deserved their position.

Few of Amalia's peers shared her view of theat impending doom, or of the entirety of the holdy people as the single bastion of defense. She was often seen with a measure of distrust, dangerously close to heresy, but her pure love for Serlios made the thought seem harmless.

A man of the Watch in the eagle-blazoned navy livery approached his Sheriff with a certain expression of resignation.

"My lord," he began, "we have a certain situation. There are five dead Islanders; we found the bodies scattered along Market Street."

"The Valinthian, perhaps?" Xilia asked, conveniently overlooking the guard's shaking.

Sheriff Achard handed off the torch with a quiet order. He made a hand motion. A few moments later a figure appeared at the cast iron gate.

A strange man it was, and he delicately pushed the gate and stepped lightly in. He wore all dark clothing, but an amber stone gleamed at his throat. He cast the ends of his cloak away from his feet as he came to Achard. He had the air of a man who knew he could do anything, without regard for death or danger. His smile curved like some cold, cruel twist of wind, heedless of any kindness or mercy. He greeted the Sheriff with only a tip of his hat; this man was no guard.

"Sheriff." He pushed the cloak over his shoulders. "To what do I owe this pleasure?"

Amalia strained her ears to hear the conversation. They burned with the effort.

"It has been discovered that our man is Valinthian." The mystery man gave a nasty smile. "Regardless of if he's your target, if you catch the man who is messing about, he is yours to dispense of."  
The man tipped his hat once more and was gone without a sound.

"Head Priestess, we will apprehend the man if your Temple can control the effects of these transgressions."

Amalia briefly wondered how that man would get a confession from those Valinthians he identified.

Xilia agreed to the proposal and the City Watch departed. Amalia spoke.

"It makes sense that an arrogant Valinthian might kill Islanders."

Xilia's slipper peeked from beneath layers of cloth to tap at the stone walkway. "With the tower broken, anything may come out of it. Valune stonecraft is more than just mortar, and when the bonds break, their glue is released. Amalia, you will remain and close this whilst we remove the magic from these remains. The Valune were never good at staying dead."

A lower-ranked Priestess than she brought Amalia a shaking prisoner. When his blood was spilled upon the ground she sat and began the lengthy process of watshing the tower. It was a restless night of gathering bones, then taking them back to the Temple to clear of possible magic. By the time the sun rose Amalia's skin was stinging and faintly red, and weariness sat on her shoulders.

After finishing her morning devotions in the Temple, Amalia wrapped a heavy brown cloak about her round figure and pinnned it with a brass button. She would pay a visit to a dear friend of some assistance in the dew of the morning and spend a lovely afternoon in the cool shade of sleep. She made sure to wear the more conservative robes and gloves to hide the effects of her magic, but she could not cover the angry red spreading from her temples down her neck that touched the upper end of her tattoo.

She did not carry her staff as she departed. The blood from those killed during the riot had long since been washed from the Temple steps, but other traders were not quite so fastidious, to which the dull maroon stains on the street attested.

It was early in the morning, just after sunup and the pale blue sky sent an eastern wind through the city with scents of pine and fresh cakes. A pastry chef lived nearby.

The first trickles of people were beginning the day, workers leaving home as wives went to market. Amalia fell into step behind a pair of gossipping women walking down a major street. She pulled her hood tighter. It was far easier to brave a crowd in the wake of another person.

"Did you hear about the fight yesterday?" One remarked.

"I did! Right before the Earl's very home too – and they say the Brotherhood was involved."

"Well I heard that the Unvardin were there, and that the Count had hired them!"

The market was a crowded street of shops, flanked by stalls of food and trinkets, a busy place. But here Amalia diverged into a tiny alley and onto a back street.

The Myrandian community was small in Valune, situated conveniently out of sight. It had far more color than the rest of the city, banners and flags hanging from windows. There was a strange calm along Myrandar Alley, though plenty of peaceful and soft-spoken Veles moved in small groups. The street was only wide enough between shop stalls for a pair of horses abreast, though very few Myrandians led mounts.

Amalia genuinely liked most of the Myrandians she had met. They were a fairly gentle people, where most Islanders enjoyed a little fighting, and a Valinthian was as likely to be your sworn enemy as your best friend in a single moment. They were loyal to a fault, and took great pride in their treatment of others.

A crash down the corner was followed by a brief yell and fast hooves clattering. A man burst into the Alley riding a roan stallion at a full gallop. Amalia shoved behind a fruit-seller's stall for cover and turned to see a flash of platinum hair and the man vanished with whooping laughter.

"That man..." the trader cursed. "This isn't the first time he's ridden through the Alley far too fast."

In a gap between two doors was a set of stairs with a wreath of flowers strung along the doorsill of an arch. Amalia ascended, passing a number of doors on flat places incrementing the steep stairs. About twenty steps up and dangerously near the top of the tall building the stairs turned right along the corner of the building to form the landing of Sambar's apartment.

A rail guarded the balcony from a steep fall that looked down upon the north Market Street and directly upon the back courtyard of a rollicking tavern. She turned to smile at the characteristic barred door yet wide-open window through which she could see a cluttered table. Amalia threw her hood back and inhaled the fresh spring air that danced across her loose hair and knocked at the thin wood of the door.

A man called out. "Fiamy, the door!"

A small Vele girl opened the door timidly, wringing her hands in trepidation upon seeing the woman's calm and burnt face. She led her in and glanced from the visitor to the table littered with scrolls, stricken and unsure.

A man burst into the room and nearly fell over in his exhaustion but somehow managed to retain some grace. He was short and slight, wearing only a blanket. Were Amalia a weaker woman she might have felt some small embarrassment.

"Ah, Amalia, pleasure... Fiamy, offer our hospitality! Oh nevermind- my housecoat!"

He began shoving armfuls of scrolls off the table and grabbed a carafe of dark raspberry liquid from a nearby shelf.

"Sit, sit! Sorry for the state of my home, I only just woke."

"Of course." She soothed. Myrandian lateness was lethal to the punctual. "Have you taken another servant??"

Sambar laughed. The noise was loud in proportion to his speaking voice. "The usual arrangement – work in exchange for a prime education. Even the aristocracy here values my learning! But Fiamy, she's a good Myrandian girl – none of that other nonsense. Have you gotten a look at the new round of tithes?"

She gave the academic a steady look "Serlios has not raised his tithes. You know well that I lack any fondness for the Brotherhood of the Sun. If too many continue converting to the false deities we shan't have any true clergy to satisfy the gods. I for one, believe that Serlios would be the first to attack the world."

"And Estoran would hardly destroy his creations." He answered dryly. "But I won't deny it's a problem. High tithes mean exclusive membership, thus making it a status symbol. It's fashionable, if a bit sacriligious. Ha! No on in this city agrees on theology, not even friends! A pity, considering the Old Valune unity in such regards."

"Actually, I had hoped for some minor study in that area." Amalia cut in. Blue eyes looked at her over a button nose and frowning mouth, the shade of seawater breaking upon ice. There was a tiny piece of torn parchment hanging in his tangled hair.

Sambar may have been a traditional Myrandian, as well as fully immersed in his own studies, but he was a genius – once properly dressed, he looked positively kingly. The major families of the city commonly hired well-to-do scholars as tutors for their children, and a major academic figure such as the Myrandian – famed for his work on the Sandstone Prophecies - was sought after.

Sambar allowed Fiamy to help him into a creamy linen housecoat and looped a sash around his hips. "Then let's go up – it'll be more refreshing to speak outside. Fiamy, how about honey-mead and some of those beans?"

He climbed a few stairs in the corner of the room and opened a trapdoor. The corners of the coat flapped around his ankles as Sambar ascended and leaned down to give the priestess a hand up.

The top of the building was flat with a stone wall around it. A huge mound of cushions rose in the corner, flanked by low tables. A large scope and desk were across from them.

Sambar let himself fall languidly onto the cushions as Amalia carefully sat at the edge. Fiamy brought cups of golden liquid and bowls of cold beans.

"Delicious." The scholar sighd at the hot drnk. "Spring may have sprung, but the warm-weather wines haven't arrived. Still, I prefer to hold out for the Myrandian shipments. The best drink hails from the Kiadul clan's vineyards."

"Do you come from their region?" Amalia inquired politely, folding pasty hands in her lap.

Sambar waved a hand absently. "I was born in Myrandar. Best for study. But you want to know about the Valune people. May I ask why?"

Her dark eyes rolled skyward. Nosy man... "The old tower near the docks was found broken last night. It was a glass-wall mausoleum, and the City Watch has asked my Temple to control any... undesirable effects."

His expression took on an almost wicked interest. "A greedy magic-hunter, perhaps? Or a spy? An Alathan leader looking to reclaim the ancestral city?"

Amalia raised a hand. "That is for the Sheriff's men to determine. I wish to deduce what nature of Valune safeguards my fellows need to restrain."

"Well," His face fell somewhat, but regained its fervor at the prospect of giving a lecture. "to deduce the burial method, we should first combine religion and circumstance. The Valune were a brother race to the Feilun and Solune, but rather than our five-pointed star they worshipped Vunios – whom I personally would consider the bones of the star. Because he was the stone of the world before the arrival of our gods, his dearest would have been the stone and ground, so the Valune would have revered the earth beneath them as his own extension."

Sambar was then entering his rhythm, eyes narrowed demandingly as his hands waved erratically. "So when the First War struck, the Valune would have placed safekeeping on their spirits to prevent desecration by the new gods – and where better than the dirt beneath their feet!?"

He was gazing at her expectantly, his morning meal entirely forgotten. Amalia found the theory rather far-fetched but felt to fondly for her confidant to ruin his triumph.

"Just a moment!" He exclaimed. "I should record that for further study."

He leaped to his feet and returned inside before emerging with charcoal and a stack of papers. Sambar hurried to the desk and began scribbling.

"So you believe the Valune buried some form of security beneath their tombs? Perhaps even beneath the entire city?" Against her will a jolt ran down her spine. "That makes it sound like their control requires digging."

Sambar nodded. "It very well might. Do keep me informed on what happens. This may very well be the next step in understanding the disappearance of the Valune, besides the moon-worshippers, the living remnants that managed to escape."

He returned to the cushions and made himself comfortable once again, but his slender hands unconsciously continued shuffling the papers.

"This is rather grievous news." Amalia said at length. "And I will bring it to the attention of the Head Priestess. If my temple required it, would you perhaps take a look at our underground? We could surely use your expertise."

The Myrandian nodded sagely. "I would be delighted to help. You may also find that Her Eminence may need to consult with the other branches of your clergy for stronger defenses."

"Are you learned in the Valune practices of magic?" she asked.

Sambar tooka slow sip of this drink as though lost in thought. For a moment Amalia assumed he hadn't heard, perhaps, or wasn't going to answer.

Then he exclaimed, "Think as they do! If you lived as and when they did, if you worshipped their god, if you related to others as they did, how would you use magic? Look at this land, truly look! What means would be at your disposal for which purposes?"

She cared little for the opinions of others, but could not help feeling vaguely insulted.

She answered stiffly. "I do not dwell so deeply on such things.."

Sambar placated her with a bowed head. "You should. This is your homeland as well. But I speak too strongly, and to a guest."

Amalia was tempted to ask about the Valinthian aspect to her situation, but hesitated. Finally her sense of duty to Xilia overruled the dislike of further chastismement and she spoke again.  
"What purpose could a Valinthian have for seeking Valune magic?"

"None!" Sambar chuckled good naturedly. "They are all too busy being terrorized by Vorain Sthairn I daresay. Though I did hear some minor tidbits of a lynching at a riot some weeks ago."

Amalia bid Sambar a good day and took her leave, intending to have a restful sleep before she approached Xilia about the latest development. In all likelihood, the Temple would be required to dig beneath the Valune tower. Amalia felt no fear, but a strange tickle in her stomach plagued her as she exited the Alley.


	3. Chapter 3

A rough shoved halted Daniven's escape as he was thrown aside to the ground. His head went numb as it bounced against the stone street and he blinked up at the too-bright light above him. Squinting the not-tears! from his eyes, he met the gaze of a Brotherhood Priest standing above him, skeletal arms crossed with a pinched and sallow angry face. The robed cretin had a group of Brotherhood soldiers around him who deflected the crowd from the immediate area so that they could deal with the situation without any random Myrandian lazing through their way.

"Trying to escape?" The Priest wheezed. "I didn't think anyone would be that stupid, but it seems our Primate was correct in his estimation of your character."

A soldier kicked Daniven in the side even as he attempted to rise, pressing him back against the ground. Daniven's pride stung and throbbed at the situation. Here he was, kicked and humiliated in the street where anyone could watch! The shame was almost unbearable to him!

The Priest halfheartedly waved the rough soldier aside, uncaring of his treatment of the Valinthian. "And don't you realize we can find you no matter your location? You could traipse right into the center of your rotten Empire and our magic could still have hold of your spirit. Well, come along!"

The men of the Brotherhood grasped Daniven and dragged him to his feet with cruel hands on his small form. He hissed at the pain on his arms and shoulders twinging. He weakly wondered where the Knight was - still caught in the midst of a Myrandian crowd?

The soldiers pulled him in shame through the streets, keeping hands on him as though guiding a criminal to the jail. The Priest walked in their front like a sentinel and leader, though he had the proud countenance of neither - the man looked more like a cretin than any man of note. Into the courtyard of the Brotherhood Temple they went, Daniven soon brought into the warm office of a calmly furious Primate and Count.

Olenor almost smiled, but the smile was mean and vindictive, hinting at terrible things to come. He motioned for his soldiers to release Daniven - they cast him to the ground."Trying to escape?" Olenor grinned meanly. "You truly are a stupid, stupid boy. No matter your location, we can always find you. I have eyes and ears all across this city, and it's Courts are in my pockets."

Fed up with the consistent scorn, Daniven scowled. "In the pockets of the cheap, bribing noble? I pity this city for your presence."

Olenor's face was a kind one in its features, gentle even, but it grew into a horrible and twisted thing when he became angry as he did then. He stooped and grasped the Valinthian by the collar of his shirt and drew him close with a surprising strength. Finished with being the victim, Daniven did not back down. He continued to hold his position, even meeting the evil eyes of the Primate.

"I will help this city. I will make this a true place of divinity and harmony. I-"

"-Will bring Serlios upon our heads with fire and death!" Daniven interrupted. "And I will have no part of your plots. You are a man unworthy of even my pity!"

Olenor backhanded him and his head spun, seeming to fill with dust. Daniven found he could not speak, could not remember any words to put forth. Instead, glaring up into the too-close face of the upset man, he punched him in the nose and heard a satisfying crack.

Daniven could have laughed aloud. Here was the great Count Olenor, Primate of the Brotherhood who did not think to even restrain his arms! Who could not even fend off a single blow! Knowing that he was doomed as Olenor reeled, hands pressed to his face he had an advantage and would use it to the last. He darted at the man, slender hands fervently reaching for both the sword and dagger on either side of the Primate's hips.

Olenor, quicker than Daniven could have guessed, grabbed his wrists before he could get a weapon and pushed him into the wall with the leverage, arms of the Valinthian spread to either side. His nose was broken, Daniven saw with a grim happiness. Every ounce of the good feeling melted away as he took stock of the situation, staring up into the dark and bottomless eyes of the Primate. Olenor was watching him with an indecipherable look upon his face, holding his wrists in an iron grip.

Daniven did not like that position. He felt vulnerable, hands and arms pushed into the wall and unable to shield himself. His previous courage ran like a field mouse and he pressed himself into the cold stone wall as though trying to morph through it. He unconsciously shrank back, trying to look smaller and avoid notice - though he would deny it if ever asked.

"There is a point when every man should give up, Valinthian." Olenor grit. "You have foolishly pressed a nonexistent advantage and allowed me to see your capabilities. I shall no longer underestimate you."

He looked over the form of Daniven. "And it seems someone like you must be bound to prevent mishaps, lest you use that little body to unholy speeds."

He didn't like the way Olenor was looking at him - the Valinthian tried to pull his hands free, tried to eliminate the feeling of the Primate's hands on him. Why was he acting so?

Olenor seemed to notice the sudden fear, though it hid deep. "What is this, that you should take a striking with such courage, yet back away now? Is it my touch that you fear?"

The aura of wicked delight intensified and Daniven attempted to struggle away more, but was helpless as the unworldly strong Primate spun him around and shoved him further against the wall. Something was tied about his wrists, binding them together. The closeness of the man felt dirty, felt unwelcome and Daniven suppressed a scream of true fear as Olenor threw him across his desk and watched him squirm into a defensive position.

“I truly should take advantage of you.” The man said quietly. “You make such a stunning picture. But now you know the consequences should you continue upon your current path.”

He called for his soldiers to reenter the office and take the shaking man to his cell.

 

The evening hung loosely upon Valune, as though the day loathed to give up its hold of golden light over the city. The few clouds were wisps stretched across the breadth of the sky in tawny and glowing streaks of color that covered the pale, fading blue of the heavens. A few stars hovered in the darkness on the horizon, twinkling and shining their glories on the outskirts of the city.

 

Ulzenin Manor towered in the midst of the street of fine homes, framed by summer trees in their full bloom and walls of plain stone – though there was decoration enough upon the dazzling front wall of the Manor. Some carriages ambled by, and groups of highborn youths swaggered past as though looking for trouble.

It was a peerless, terrific structure. The manor's steps descended directly to the street, with a high wall separating the grounds from the rest of the area. Daniven knew that a fabulous courtyard, stables, and house-militia barracks rested just behind the main house. It's pale stone formed a front wall both windowless and flat, for the entire three-story wall was a wonder to behold. Spectacular, old carvings made up the entire wall in images straight out of old Valune fables that no one remembered any longer. Masked, spindly people danced in flames of stone, winds buffeted their feathered hair. A faceless god hovered above, his long-forgotten palms reaching for his celebrating people. In the very midst, around the large door of the manor, a beast of many spindles seemed to resemble the sun.

Before the Manor gathered a group from the Brotherhood. The Temple Knights stood guard atop their horses, weapons close to hand. Priests of all kinds gathered in a knot, speaking in hushed voices – the mood about the group was solemn, excited, and dangerous. At their very center was Olenor in all his dark power, dressed at the height of finery with his hair combed from his face and hanging down his back. He gazed cruelly up at the Valune stonework, mouth turned up at the corners, but not reaching any further. He was listening to the words of his men without responding, only terrible plans fermenting in his mind. His nose was long-healed by the work of his Priests.

Daniven hunched at the very edge of the group, as far as he could get away with. He wanted nothing to do with this, with this awful idea of dangerous minds. He ignored the young bravados, the shining stars, and the Brotherhood men – all intent upon the Primate's every move, waiting to see what he would do next. His chest coiled in shame to identify with such a group, to be affiliated with their doings. He glanced at the Knight he'd lost the other day in Myrandar Alley – the man was behaving oddly similar to he himself (though he was loathe to admit so), but with shoulders thrust back and chin raised in pride. His eyes roved in all directions, watchful of everything occurring on the street – he locked gazes with Daniven and pointedly turned away.

Well. If he wasn't put-out by Daniven's ploy.

“Shall we begin?” Olenor's voice rang towards the sky.

The Priests knelt in a circle with Olenor at the center, protected by their soldiers. With their hums and chants, the wind picked up, and the sky's light brightened along the sunned edges. It spiraled greater, like water pouring from a crystalline urn, until one might mistake the time for a summer midday. Olenor raised both hands to the sky, wind snapping his golden sleeves like the wings of a phoenix, and grasped at nothingness with a look of the purest concentration.

His hands managed to close upon something, on the light itself, and he ripped it from the sky with a sound of thunder booming. Daniven belatedly wondered why no one was emerging from their homes to look, but he was transfixed by the creature Olenor cast to the cobblestones before the Manor.

A woman, but certainly not a human. Her skin was light, her hair was fire, and the celestial confidence in her bare body could nearly justify Valune animism. She reeled, dizzied by the great fall, and shuddered to stand.

“How dare you presume to-” Her roaring voice died out when Olenor commanded the knights to seize her. He ignored her words as one might ignore the squealings of a pig at slaughter, and he drew a dagger from his sleeve.

Daniven was poised to move, to help, but the terror of Olenor paralyzed his movements. This was barbarism! Pure sacrilege! In fact, it was a crime against the bones of the world itself, and he half-expected Euxine to drop from the sky and level the entire city for such an act.

The door to the Manor burst open on the furious countenance of the Earl himself, a tall man of Vele heritage, with a laughing face that was now turned to rage – and the same blond man that had raced at blinding speed down Myrandar Alley on horseback.

“What is this debauchery before my home?” He demanded.

The Earl was a man of peculiar looks, with angular features and lines around his mouth that attested to a habit of laughing – often. But his eyes – and they were kindled with pure darkness now – had the keenness of an eagle within, and delicate and furrowed brows. Though he carried himself with the uprightness of his station, something about his movements suggested that he could quite easily go unseen.

“This is Temple business, Merroq!” Olenor called gleefully, using the Earl's name as though cursing. “None of your concern!”

Olenor's dagger was pressed to the woman's throat, the tip drawing – no, not blood, but light pouring from her skin. He presumed to try to kill a spirit!

At that moment any sensible person would turn and run, would leave the chaos behind and escape. Yet paralyzed as he was, Daniven couldn't find it in himself. Something in the woman's face called to him, as though the enraged ethereal eyes begged for his assistance. _His._ Olenor was ignoring the Earl's whistle for help and proceeding to butcher her. Well damn.

In that instant, with everyone's attention on the spectacular scene, Daniven slid the stiletto from a soldier's belt and hurled it at the Primate. His sharp eye paid off – the thin knife punctured the Olenor's dominant arm and his dagger clattered to the cobblestones.

The Primate yelled as much as the suddenness as the pain, and the soldiers turned on Daniven. With no other weapon – well, he didn't think that through too far – and impossibly outnumbered, he braced himself for the sword hurtling his way.

It never made contact. Sir Saeryn had drawn his own blade and, with a ferocity and skill in heavy combat as only his order could, began slaughtering the Brotherhood's men with a cold face. Daniven took up the weapon of a fallen soldier and joined Saeryn, his speed making up for the lack of skill with a heavier, two-edged blade.

The sun spirit flung Olenor's arm from her figure as the priests began preparing magic, and with a wickedly delighted laugh flung fire into their midst.

Merroq entered the fray himself, as no one would have dared guess, and with a real rapier at that – not some petty nobleman's ornate but useless artifact.

Saeryn was, put simply, astonishing. He moved with the pent-up energy and rage of a lion, every movement serving some use in bloodletting. Honorable as he was in principles, he fought dirty – no one could touch him.

What began as a one sided suicide mission on Daniven's part quickly became a rout with such unlikely allies. The sun spirit herself sent the Brotherhood running with flame at her fingertips and a vengeful joy in her stance.

With the Brotherhood gone, the group stared at one another with something akin to shock, save for the woman.

“They will not summon me again.” She said, satisfied. Her gaze roved over the miraculously unharmed Valinthian with a close second to fondness. “I am greatly in your debt.”

The solemn moment passed when she literally spat on the cobblestones, liquid fire burning a small hole into the unlucky stone. “For one claiming to worship the sun, that madman pays His children with a sorry bribe! Such scum!”

Daniven didn't know whether to laugh or not, stunned as he was that a holy creature spoke with such... informality. Then, quickly as she came, the sun spirit melted into incorporeal light and scattered into the sky.

The Earl filled the awkward silence. “Do come in. The Primate will likely send more men this way, or perhaps a snotty constable.”

He looked to Daniven for the first time, and it was like a meeting of kindred spirits in some odd fashion. “The sun spirits are unlikely to forget what you have done.”

“His Lordship will see to you in his study.” The manservant waited politely at the door of the washroom as Daniven and Saeryn finished the laces on their borrowed tunics – the Knight’s fit tightly across the chest and shoulders while Daniven’s hung quite loose.

The house was decorative, opulent, with cozy furnishings of Solune tapestries and Ithrian rugs. Green was prevalent – it seemed the Earl was fond of it – but the orange of his family was a warm constant in the tablecloths and curtains. Stars peeped in through the windows of clear and bright glass from above the lamps of the well-to-do street outside.

The servant silently opened a door ahead, at the left of the hallway. “Your guests, milord.”

The first things that entered into the Valinthian’s vision was the monstrous creature behind the Earl’s desk. From a cage suspended by the ceiling he could see a… well, it looked like a butterfly, but certainly was not one of the kindly creatures – its wings were quite typical in color, but were of _feathers_ instead. It was so close, yet so far to the expectations of Daniven that he felt all the more outraged by it – were it completely otherworldly, he could accept it, but this seemed more a wrongness than anything.

“Gentlemen.” The Earl greeted from his desk, noting the Valinthian’s discomfort as he placed his spectacles aside with a rueful smile. “I would have you rested better, but I fear this conversation simply cannot wait after what just occurred.”

“I regret the trouble we have caused for you, my lord.” Saeryn said.

The Earl laughed, spots of color dotting his fair cheekbones. “They say I am fond of trouble, Sir Knight, and I’ve found my share of it! But sit, for I have many questions to ask of you.”

They gratefully took chairs across from the fine desk. The man’s eyes flicked to Daniven appraisingly, surprisingly shrewd in such a happy face.

“I now the sight of Vakritch Knights in this city, and even the folk of Valinthia, but I’ve never looked upon your face…?”

“Daniven.” He supplied.

“Daniven, then.” Was the response. “May I ask how you came to be in Valune? Though I’m sure the Count has asked this of you many times – sailing from many areas of your country brings you past the Isles, whom I’d assumed were warring with you.”

He thought carefully for a moment, ignoring the heavy weight of their stares as long dark hair and a cruel face flashed through his mind. His decision already made to omit some truths, he worried for their response – but years of his mother’s training had honed his lies as sharp as steel and sweet as honey.

“The Empire is fragmented,” he answered slowly, with great care, “and the feuding difficult to reconcile with the Islander invasion – it is hard worrying for the safety of myself and my family. I came aboard a Myrandian vessel, which are among the safest, free of feuds.”

“Why leave, if worried for your family?”

“I can only give so much.” He said simply, but it meant much more. “I came for liberation, and to take residence with my brother – it was then that the Brotherhood took me. They grabbed me right from the streets, in broad daylight!”

“It was preposterous.” He added sulkily, offense in every corner of his body.

The Earl’s laughter seemed to take even him by surprise. “I do not know you, but you have a famililar look. Do you have any knowledge of why the Primate would take you? If you are of use to him, should his enemies despise you?”

“Certainly not.”

The Earl made a questioning twitch of his brow, and a smile that reached no further than his mouth. Daniven, suddenly aware of the precariousness of his situation, made to explain.

“He thought to use me as an outsider, and that having me might curry favor with my kin. They had to force me with rituals and violence when I refused. But… I do not deny that I saw strange things there – as much so as what just happened in the street.”

“And I am certain that the both of you heard much that Olenor wants stifled.”

“I have much to tell, but… I do not feel particularly safe.” And he’d rather not wake floating in the sea with a dagger between his ribs.

The Earl dimpled. “I think we could arrange to have both ends met.”

Daniven returned the smile, suddenly youthful and far less sullen than his countenance made him seem.

“Sir Knight,” the nobleman turned, “I will give you my hospitality for the night along with a glowing letter of praise for your lord.”

“And we will come to a satisfactory arrangement, you and I,” He said to Daniven, leaning his elbows on the desk in a decidedly ungentlemanly posture. It looked deliberate, however. “I do think I like you, but you’ve not earned my trust as of yet. We’ll have my good friend, the Sheriff of the City Watch, clear your name and try to prevent reducing my reputation to tatters – I do not employ criminals, you see.”

“What is the purpose of this questioning?” Daniven asked, nervous. Ha! He was innocent of all crimes in Valune, but he was guilty… The guiltiest man alive, by all counts, even his own.

“While I’m aware that the City Watch is indeed on probation, we need your name cleared lest the Constabulary comes knocking to arrest one of my men for any criminal activity. I don’t know you - although I intend to.”

The Earl glanced surreptitiously from beneath his lashes. “Because I’m sure you were not present at that riot.”

“Of course not.” The Valinthian said blandly, glancing at Saeryn’s sudden quiet.

“And we shall keep it that way. Islanders are dying in the streets and the Tower is broken, both of which the Temple of Serlios have attributed to Valinthian hands.”

Ouch. Then it seemed he was more in danger than he’d originally thought. Just because he’d done nothing did not prevent the Courts from executing him to make a powerful statement.

“What does it mean that the Tower is broken?” Daniven asked. “Isn’t it just another mausoleum?”

“I’m hoping you can help me answer that.” The Earl’s attention fluctuated between the two men. “There are strange rumors in the city, of dark shapes and ill will. And I hear terrible stories of the Primate’s actions behind closed doors.

Daniven and Saeryn shared an odd moment, remembrance of the sun spirit bleeding on Olenor’s floor reflected on both of their faces – there was tense sacrilege in the city, fearfully powerful ambition inside dangerous people. The Primate was a horrifying man, even to one with such ferocious, disturbing parents as Daniven’s had been. Olenor had in great measure his mother’s lack of morality, coupled with every bit of his father’s smug satisfaction in all of his actions.

“It would seem you are not likely to forget what you’ve seen.” The Earl observed.

“He is much worse than the public is already aware of.” Saeryn’s voice was incredibly deep, full of solemnity. “With the uprising of the Brotherhood of the Sun, Olenor means to take control of the city.”

By the set of his shoulders, the Earl had clearly already deduced as much. A sudden worry splashed a chill trickle down Daniven’s spine. What if his information was not payment enough? If this lord would not protect him, Daniven would quickly fall into Olenor’s lap all over again – and the Primate thirsted for blood now.

“The Primate is summoning and sacrificing spirits to gather power,” He urged, almost desperately, “and he has deluded himself into believing that he is the Sun Triad’s incarnate.”

That calm composure slipped away like water, to allow the Earl to lean forwards with little good humor, brows knitted sharply together. “Then he should be brought down quite a bit in his ego. Saeryn, I expect we’ll need to speak carefully in the close future.”

“Danvien.” He stood, the Valinthian name strange on his lips. “I need to know who would break the Tower – that much of a disturbance leads to a suspiciously large power vacuum.”

Daniven rose as well, followed by Saeryn. “I do not know. My people have no concern for Valune towers and masks, especially not in the middle of our wars.”

“Then I will begin the attempt to fix this. Once we’ve cleared your name and unworked the traces of their magic – but I don’t intend to involve you further with this, if only to deny Olenor your presence.”

Saeryn exited with a grateful bow, but the Earl paused Danvien with a hand, standing close. “Just a moment, we should discuss your immediate situation. I don’t do charity, exactly, but I’ve a number of Valinthian acquaintances, some of whom I owe favors. I would be especially glad to help the family of a friend.”

“Alviven.” Daniven gave the name. “We’re of similar appearance, if not _mannerisms_.”

The Earl laughed. “From what I’ve seen, certainly not! I honestly see… Well, more of _myself_ in you. I’ll be checking with him, but you’ve truly named one of my men!”

“You’re not-?”Daniven quashed the urge to step away – he’d faced his mother in her rages, matching the brashest of warriors, and he could stand firm.

He knew precisely who Alviven worked with, the depths to which the Unvardin reached in all of society. If this man was an agent, particularly an important one, he was dangerous and had serious power.

The change in the Earl’s countenance was smooth, sudden, as his eyes’ sapphire focused in entirely on him. They were good-natured, but almost inhuman in their intensity.

“What do you know?”

“I know my brother’s profession, and not the one he tells guests.” He stated, squaring his shoulders.

The Earl was incredibly serious, not to mention blocking the door. “You may be of more help than I originally intended. You do realize that our group has its origins in Valune? In fact, the lovely creature behind my desk is our emblem, the Feathered Butterfly. Actually a symbol of the old Valune god.”

“I’m not well-versed in your history.” He mumbled, chin dipping forwards as he tried to avert his gaze.

“You’ll be brushing up rather soon.” The Earl stated, and as he opened the door behind him, smiling again, he brightly said, “Let’s see about settling you, rather than dumping you on your kin? My horse races are difficult to manage with such problems in the balance!”

 

 

The wind furiously buffeted the people on the street, seeking the offices of the government – on this particular road were the City Watch, the Courts, and the Constabulary – all with the purpose of keeping the King’s peace.

Daniven impatiently tapped his boot on the cobblestones, wrapping his arms around himself – the wind brought cold despite the onset of spring. He huffed at the Knight’s tardiness and rolled his shoulders. How crude to keep others waiting!

It felt strange to be somewhere at the command of another, so similar to his old life – like the return of a phantom limb to something more substantial. His hip felt light and bare without his rapier – still in the Primate’s foul hands – whereas the stiletto in his shirt was an unwelcome weight. They were useful, of course, and he was incredibly quick and deadly with one, but he’d never liked them. They’d always made him feel… _second best_ , and decidedly so. Full-sized swords were for honorable men, and famous Knights, like his eldest brother Amain, but stilettos were the work of the second son – to do the mother’s dirty work.

He pushed aside the instinct to bash his head against the wall until it was empty, but it actually felt much better today, and he’d rather not ruin his luck while it lasted.

The Knight rounded the corner of the tax office, finally, approaching with resignation on his face and a sword belted across his back with a gray baldric. As he came to a stop, Daniven’s sneer took a moment to slide effortlessly into place.

“Late, are we?” He asked.

“I seem to have been too long in Myrandian company.” Saeryn quipped, eyebrow raised.

“I would say that is a low blow,” Daniven sniggered, “but I found it rather amusing. They are truly death to the punctual.”

They let the subject drop as they entered the Watch building, and soon Daniven was seated on a wooden stool in a blank room, alone. Of course they would be questioned separately – and of course Saeryn also needed his name cleared from his most recent job.

A man entered the room in the Watch’s livery, but with a bright silver baldric and a cap on his head. He was middle aged, Vele like the Earl himself, and had the distinct air of a man with determination burning in his every action. Daniven could find himself believing that this man, the Sheriff, believed in the truth of his every undertaking, leaving no room for indecision.

“You are the Valinthian?” He walked about in a semicircle, arms crossed over his chest.

The questioning by the Sheriff was brief, concise, and not altogether as uncomfortable as it could have been. Achard fired off his questions briskly, pausing only for the barest of answers – almost as though he had already made his mind to offer Daniven pardon. He could not tell if it was an effect of the Earl's influence, or that Achard truly did not believe that Daniven had it in him to survive a lynching or murder Islanders in cold blood.

“Well, I suppose that's that.” Achard shifted his cap. “I will have this filed, and you should consider yourself free of all legal debts.”

“Truly, that easy?” Daniven could not help asking.

The Sheriff laughed quietly, the humor of his face seeming a reaction to something incredibly droll. “I do think you can aid us in another investigation – if you have a moment.”

“Surely.”

“If you'll just wait here for a moment.” Achard nodded his way out. “I'll send our man in.”

Another man entered the bare office and stopped before Daniven's chair. Immediately Daniven's chest tightened in discomfort. The man was tall, with the round face, sharp features and red hair he'd been warned against by his family. Those were the qualities of an East Islander – Sthairn's country. Daniven couldn't suppress the mixture of rage and fear he felt, though he conveniently ignored the fear.

The islander wore dark attire, matched by his gloves and high-collared cloak. His short boots thumped against the wooden floor as he crossed over with a businesslike smile and removed his hat. He held a hand out.

Daniven hesitated before gripping the much larger hand, ignoring the warning in his head.

“I am Mr. Boggs.” Daniven released the hand as though burnt, jumping out of his chair to back away.

Owain Boggs the right hand man of Sthairn, responsible for the Vastille Executions, the death of Telus IV, executions and imprisoning of hundreds of Valinthians, and the end of the Caedron family. He was one of the most dangerous, efficient agents in the world, a brilliant adviser, and loathing of anything Valinthian. Daniven could clearly see the distaste in his eyes.

“Come now, calm down.” Owain cooed. He was notoriously fond of his work. “Today I'm after better than yourself.”

He moved forwards, the aura of danger giving a fuzzy and heavy feeling to Daniven's head; the injury still made it difficult to think at times. When the cornered Valinthian seemed close to fainting Owain turned with a scoff and hung his cloak and hat upon a wall hook.

“Now sit.”

Daniven was obeying before he even realized it, then the shame rose. Boggs had one of those voices that oozed power.

Owain stood before him with arms crossed. “Dark hair, gold eyes... You are obviously a Coronel. I personally saw to the Vastille, so you must be from Aethre.”

Daniven couldn't suppress his tremors at that point. To have a man so hateful of his culture also be so knowledgeable in it... was terrifying, especially to be so easily identified. He clenched his hands.

“But that is of little importance to me now, and I suspect the Sheriff would look ill upon the death of a man whom he took the trouble to clear.” Boggs said offhandedly. “I am merely here to ask if you have seen a particular man. A Valinthian would be most likely to know him.”

Daniven inwardly snorted. He would not betray another of his kind.

“He is quite close to your own size. Blond hair, gray eyes, proud fellow. You would recognize him as a traitor.”

He frowned angrily. Boggs had just perfectly described the entirety of the Caveldon family, and the only free and alive Caveldon... was the rightful Emperor.

“I've not seen him, Boggs,” Daniven snarled, “and I would not present the Emperor to you under any circumstances.”

“And what is a Valinthian doing in Valune?” He laughed. “Running from my Prince? Or perhaps a scheme has backfired? It won't be long before you've no Empire to return to. The counties won't hold much longer.”

Daniven shot back. “Aerudon will not fall. They have the strength to oust your Prince.”

“And who will the family of Aerudon marry with to carry an Imperial line? Surely not Eveldon?”

He rose a brow, chuckling at Daniven's immediate horror. Aerudon was of house Aelios, Eveldon of House Talus. Intermarriage would shatter the characteristics that had been so carefully preserved; for ages the families within houses had bred with the utmost care. But with Sthairn's invasion the balance had been destroyed and now houses Talus and Aelios each had a single family within and no opposite branches to marry. And Daniven and his family were the final remnants of house Coronel, not in the least eager to claim their father's heritage – the last Caedron of house Aelios. Indirectly Isden was their cousin, but the “Caedron Crime” still stung too deeply and Daniven was too ashamed of his father's family's support of the traitor empress. Madman or not, the late Emperor still had the rights. And now that Sthairn polluted the capital of Caveldon with his filthy islander presence!

“It would seem you are of little use to me.” Boggs sighed lazily. “At the present time, at least. But mark this.”

He leaned over Daniven, arms crossed, and a dark expression upon his face. Daniven swallowed, heart plummeting. “You are only walking free because the Sheriff wills it – and he keeps me in the city, for now. But should the favor of your protectors fall aside... I can find you. Think dearly upon that before you aid this traitor Caveldon – or go running to him in despair.”

Owain replaced the hat upon his head, making to leave. “That will be all. Keep your eyes sharp, because I will.”

And as he left, the air in the room seemed to change, as though gravity had somewhat lessened – as though with Owain's presence everything wished to press against the ground to ensure safety. The softening of a self-preservation instinct allowed breath to finally rush into Daniven's lungs.

Try as he might to keep it buried, Daniven felt fearful. Simply knowing that people like Boggs existed was cause enough for some discomfort, but to be a Valinthian in the very same city as _Owain Boggs_ called for downright paranoia. He would not sleep well for many nights, he felt.

As he exited the room, his eyes were automatically on the form of Boggs retreating down the hallway – the prey always kept watch on the fiercest predator in the area.

And then Saeryn was beside him, finished with his own questioning. He suspiciously noted the dark-clothed man flouncing in the opposite direction. Strong eyebrows furrowed.

“You were questioned twice?” A noise of affirmation. “Why would that be?”

“Because I am apparently too clever for any one man to gauge.” Daniven snapped at the instantly frowning Knight. He left, Saeryn annoyingly at his heels.

“Why are you following me?” He demanded peevishly as he entered the streets. “Don't you have some other business?”

“Unless your mind has fled, you should know that the Vakritch Fortress is in a similar direction to the Earl's manor.” Saeryn kept pace, avoiding careening into an old alchemist with satchels of medicine. “The world does not revolve around you.”

Daniven suppressed an ungentlemanly snort. “I didn't mean that. I was implying that your company is less than desirable.”

“But surely you would prefer strange company to none at all. Proud men especially dislike being alone.” Saeryn said dismissively. Daniven's attention wavered between the Islander and a group of snarling Constables passing by.

“I am not proud of anything.” Daniven argued simply, and childishly refused to carry on further conversation – but did not refuse Saeryn's presence until the Knight's path finally diverged from his.

The late afternoon sun filtered through the windows of the room. It was spare, but fine, with each piece of furniture well-made of expensive teak. The clouds in the sky grasped shards of light and cast them down to create shadows on the Valinthian’s face. He refrained from placing his feet on the table, but tapped absently at the side of an empty vase atop it. Golden eyes blinked thoughtfully at the dark drapery as a hand adjusted his clothing.

It was a very good day for him, Daniven supposed. For the first in a long while, his head was quite clear of the fog that had swirled within it since his stay with the Brotherhood of the Sun. He could follow a trail of thought now, and he spoke clearly and all lethargy had fled to leave great energy in its wake. He felt… Well, like a different person than the past weeks had made him seem. How liberating! He needed to use this energy – it sang to do something, anything!

His wishes were answered with a summons to the Earl. Merroq, as he’d been told later, had apparently some sort of job that required tending to – and at the moment Daniven was glad to oblige, if only to get outside.

The study door opened to the rapidly familiar sight of Merroq at his desk, spectacled, and penning at a rushing pace. Daniven waited for him to pause and look over the glasses with sharp green eyes, and set his pen aside.

“Good of you to come.” The Earl reclined. Well, it wasn’t as though he’d any choice – the sentiment, however, was greatly appreciated.

“Is is, isn't it?” Daniven said wryly. Merroq burst into unexpected laughter.

“You’ve a task?” He asked.

“I do, and a rather important one, at that.” He motioned for the Valinthian to seat himself in a plush chair. “I’ve signaled to one of my men to rendezvous at Geulien Bridge this evening to collect some papers, and I need a runner to meet him. I hear that you are as fleet-footed as the wind itself, and would like to leave this in your care.”

“I can easily take care of this.” Daniven answered. And, truly, he was incredibly quick, moreso than any other fencer he’d dueled – and fencers were the fastest of society.

“Smashing! Then I leave these,” He slapped a fat envelope across the desk. “in your capable hands. My agent will be in unremarkable attire, but with a butterfly on his baldric – I daresay he should be quite easy for you to recognize.”

With an easy – and rather charming – smile, Daniven took the envelope and left.

The streets were busy today, especially so, but also nervous. He couldn’t help but catch snippets of gossip – no one could here – but they were full of darkness; Islanders found dead in alleys and corners, and the broken tower was the talk of the town.

“Could it be a ghost?” A lady fretted.

“It’s the Unvardin!” A man declared.

A duelist sneered, “The Brotherhood of the Sun probably did it.”

“But wait!” called a beggar in rags, full of righteous fury, “It is Telus IV, come to avenge himself for the lynched Valinthian! He has risen from the grave itself!”

“Hush yourself!” A man-at-arms cuffed him on the ear.

Geulien Bridge soon extended before him in a tirade of clever stone – the wall sconces were Valune warriors, statues raising their torches to the descending sun in the slashed sky. The columns that ran beneath, slipping into the rocky and dangerous waters, began as spirits and soldiers, but soon morphed into dancing visages as they met the causeway.

As usual, the Bridge had a mighty crowd traveling in heaps to and from Vakritch Fortress – supplies running in, visitors departing, and even people just enjoying the view of the western ocean, perhaps fancying they could see Valinthia from the thousands of miles across the water.

The Fortress towered forebodingly in the purpling scarlet sky, like a mountain that has uprooted itself and stepped into the sea to dip its feet in the raging tide. Saeryn was likely there right now, doing… Well, whatever it was those stuffy Knights spend their time doing. Not like he cared.

As Daniven slipped past people, he carefully checked for the baldric described – but as his eyes roved across the Bridge he caught sight of an unwelcome figure.

Senior Constable Vaeri was exiting the gates of the Fortress, a dashing figure in his golden tassels atop a dun stallion. The stare of a falcon swept across the crowds, ever-watchful and registering each and every face that it lit upon. His countenance was remarkably stern, but with an aura of cruel humor about it as well as a vicious propensity for what he might call justice.

Heart beating faster than he would ever admit, Daniven ducked aside and pulled up his hood to avoid the gaze. And lo! Along the wall and leaning against a sconce as though caught with sickness was a hooded man in the indicated attire.

He approached with as little threat in his form as possible, not wishing to bring about any scuffle, until he stood before the man with his eyes on his own feet. A strange air hung about them, as of two familiars coming into coalescence after a long absence – though the seawind cast it westward despite its potency.

“I have the papers.” Daniven murmured against the thrumming voices of the bridge’s crowd.

The man’s head shot up at that, alarmed, and the hood fell partially out of the face of Alviven - his brother.

“Daniven?!” He demanded quietly, bright olive eyes wide with surprise. “Why on earth are you here?”

That scoundrel! The Earl must have known that the rendezvous was with his brother and purposefully assigned the task to him – no other could have received it, perhaps.

Despite the shock, Daniven felt a keen relief, and maybe even some measure of longing for home. For here, among Vele and Ithrene and Islander faces were the features of his kinsmen, the stern and capable face of a Coronel man over the blessed timidity of his little brother. He would allow that he had dearly missed the familiarity of his own land – the highlands of Isden’s county and perhaps even the bitter taste of Caedron’s lovely walls.

For his own culture was harshly and enormously different from the gossiping and base people of Valune. His people did not speak so vulgar as these, and the powers of the city had a far different mind than the great families of Valinthia.

“I left Valinthia.” Daniven said, perhaps unnecessarily.

“But why?” Alviven asked, reaching for the folder Daniven eagerly gave. “You loved Valinthia, and you were ever at mother’s heels. Even after…”

Even after she killed their father. But the youngest son did not finish his thought aloud. Remembering what he had told the Earl, and resolving to keep his story the same, Daniven shuffled a bit.

"The war was making life increasingly difficult," he said, "and... well, I think we've all realized that mother was not the woman we pretended."

Oh, but how it hurt to say! She was not good, she was not moral in the slightest, but the image of Anai sparkled radiantly as though the entire world was dull clay and she a powerful emerald.

"She was cruel to you." Alviven murmured, eyes nervously looking down at his older brother's face for some reaction.

Daniven pushed the thought away and ignored the look of pity. He didn't need pity. Not for anything. Pity was far beneath him.

The clatter of hooves against the stones caught both of their attentions.

"Well," Came a smooth drawl, "I wonder why you are in public after your stunts."

Daniven snarled up at the figure of the Senior Constable and looked aside as his brother dropped his face, as though to hide. "I am a free man. Any nonexistent crime has been acquitted by the City Watch."

"And all of their petty corruption, no doubt." Said the Yellow, seeming to forget the current status of his own institution. "But I'm afraid I cannot let you go when my superiors still have your name on their... holy lists."

"I'll not come." Daniven hissed, backing away with his hand inching towards the stiletto in his shirt.

The Constable's attention suddenly diverted aside onto Alviven, and immediately following a flash of recognition came a terrible and hateful glare - whatever grievance was frightfully personal.

"Look who it is...." He stared down his nose from atop the horse. "The little criminal henchman of the Earl. It must be a true day of luck for me to have caught two cretins thus! I'll finally be taking you in, Alviven."

"I daresay you'll find that difficult." The younger Valinthian bit as the two opponents drew their blades.

With a sidelong glance at his brother, Daniven winked. With a marvelously precise cut, he sliced the straps on Vaeri's horse. With a step of the dun, the imposing Senior Constable's saddle slid to the ground in an ungainly deposit.

“Go! Go!” Daniven couldn't help his snort of humor as the two Valinthians sheathed their weapons and took off running. “I'll take your lead!”

The brothers dodged between a cluster of off-duty Watchmen – sniggering at their rival's misfortune, of course – and took off into the city's winding back streets. Leaving behind a very angry and thoroughly humiliated Senior Constable.

When they finally ducked behind a townhouse's fence, the men were laughing like children, faces flushed with no little mischief.

“Little ruffians...” Cursed a passing priest fondly – fondly because they certainly _didn't_ look that scruffy.

Daniven leaned back against the fence, breathless and grinning, as his brother tried to shrug off the comedy of the moment. “That bastard needed a check.”

“I daresay he did.” Alviven agreed happily. “He's plagued his Lordship for _ages_ , never giving us a bit of space. He tried to halt the Earl's – not so legal – horse races some time back, and his Lordship just rode right through the Yellows!”

“He positively hated me on sight.” Daniven declared.

“Because we've such a resemblance.” He said. “He's like a grumbling old man – so easy to make everything go wrong! And he's been trying to arrest me since I first set foot here.”

“Well we certainly have that in common.”

There was no little admiration in Alviven's bright green eyes, yet he was the spitting image of Anai, who would never had made such a face. “That was just like something the Earl would have done. You've such a similarity in humor.”

“Explain him.” Daniven insisted. “He's a walking anomaly – nothing adds up. It goes without saying that he's in your organization, but his character...”

Alviven answered somberly. “He's the greatest man I've ever met. He'll insist forever on his own vices – which truly are not that extensive – while at the same moment showing mercy or profound leadership. He has an iron, laughing fist.”

“That brings me no closer.” Daniven sighed. “But still, he carries himself with great power.”

“True, but we all must go through the Grandmaster – no exceptions.” He said, adding, “You should probably return and see that his Lordship has no further need of you. Carefully, lest the embarrassed Yellow track you down.”

  
  


  
  


  
  


That evening Daniven had the experience of meeting the Earl's wife when called to attend the Earl. They were in their parlour, and enjoying a quaint conversation, as the Vele woman's smile attested.

“Ah!” Merroq called when Daniven entered, in high spirits – quite similar to those in which he'd galloped down Myrandar Alley. “My dear, may I introduce the Valinthian who has joined us in our home?”

The lady, kindly and pregnant – as he could see when she rose gracefully – expectantly held out a slim hand. With a watchful glance to the Earl, Daniven kissed it.

“The pleasure is all mine, lady...?”

“Lucienda.” The Earl proudly stated, having risen as soon as his wife stood. “She is the sister of the Sheriff, and the finest of women.”

“Don't flatter me so.” She teased. “Or I might think you married me for my brother.”

Merroq feigned a stricken look. “You wound me! Shall we see to the spiritual needs of our guest?”

Lucienda swatted him playfully on the arm, leading Daniven from the room with a hand upon the shoulder. The Earl followed with an impish flounce, allowing her to steer the group.

“My husband has the need to inflict the clergy upon us, it would seem.” The lady announced. “Ever since the Brotherhood frightened away the Priesthood of Velt, we have sheltered them in the basement levels – our duty, of course.”

“Of course.” Merroq echoed.

“They should see to the removal of your curse.” She continued past the interruption. “He has told me of your situation. As I'm rather inclined towards Alviven, I am glad to meet his kin.”

Daniven gratefully nodded. “He has the disposition of a saint.”

The Earl's basement was indeed home to at least a dozen priests, one of whom was glad to flick water across Daniven's head and say a few words to banish enchantment. All in all, it was a far simpler task than the Primate had suggested.

Nightfall saw Daniven and the Earl deep in conversation in his office.

“You say the Senior Constable saw you?” Merroq asked, actually daring to recline with his feet upon his desk – it was almost ridiculous in its familiarity.

Daniven related the tale, to the Earl's fervent delight. “How mad! I should have loved to have seen his face! Surely he was enraged?”

“I confess,” Merroq said at length, “that at our first meeting, confusing as it was, I felt that we had met before. But I see now that it is because I feel such kinship with you. Much as I intended to keep you for work, your company is more appreciated than I anticipated.”

“I'm not sure how to respond.” Daniven returned the smile, looking to the plush-carpeted floor. “You are too kind.”


	4. The Temple of Serlios at War

Quick slippers tapped against the stone, robes snapped and fluttered, low female voices murmured frantically in the solemn and hushed corridor. Sparse torchlight replaced the closed and latched skylights to thrust warm light against the stark columns and stony faces. A group of Priestesses huddled abut the small, mousy woman, rushing to both attend her pace and keep out of her path.

She held a bizarre sense of power, her huge eyes observing with a dark clarity as her sharp mouth cast curses and orders – a worry was on her shoulders.

“Lock every door,” She snapped, “have the beasts on standby. Assemble the ritual circles and line up the Centurions. Every woman, every chamber lost is the product of your lack of skill.”

She lurched at a scattering group of ladies to scare them from her way. A faint thump shook the roof and rained dust upon their heads.

“Keep them from the excavation at all costs. If the scholar dies our work is lost.” the leader ordered. “Go now.”

From the rear of the dispersing group, Amalia moved to question the terrifying, mousy Priestess. “Mistress, I have neither best nor circle nor armor to my name, but I am a capable worker of the Mysteries.”

The woman never halted in her movements as Amalia rushed to keep pace, swerving through eerily quit and twisted halls.

“I would keep watch over the scholar.” She insisted politely even as the roof shook again. She worried for the unfortunate choice of Sambar, but there could be no better guardian than the entirety of the Temple of Serlios.

She cast a judging eye back at Amalia in dismissal. “If you've no position, find one.”

And with that word Amalia was off, running in the opposite direction and down many stairs. Her legs trembled with the effort and she stumbled often, but always caught herself against the smooth wall. Then she turned onto the long, descending path to the excavation.

Not a torch shone and she froze in utter darkness. The light from behind her reached in before her like ghostly smoke until the thick shadow erased it. There would be a hastily erected door at the other end, but she could not see it.

“When was I ever frightened of darkness?” She asked, pale face sweating. “Never.”

But still she could feel the terror leeching her heart as though the Valune themselves crawling out from cracks in the stone, scrambling to grasp her with spidery fingers.

“It is my fault he is in this place I must keep my promises.” She said at length, firmly. “May Serlios guide me.”

Amalia strained her vision within her skull, yet it seemed an impenetrable film clogged her mind. She pressed and shoved until a thick liquid ran from her wide eyes and her universe popped as her Sight responded to the Cyclic magics.

“It is heresy, but I require it. Forgive me.” She breathed, as much to herself as to Serlios.

And the darkness before her drained through the floor like water into soil and the entirety of her vision burst into blue flame. The walls shone as bright flame, the floor flowing agqua magma that swelled about her ankles. Despite the wrongness, Serlios rewarded sacrifice in all its forms.

Amalia ran faster than before as the floor burned her feet and the air crackled with sparks around her. She reached to her face and drew blood coated fingers from her eyes. Both the blood and her hand appeared blue though she knew normal sight would find otherwise.

When she crashed into the shoddy door Amalia released her vice like grip on the ethereal and all became shadow once more. The door opened to blessed torchlight and she stumbled inside with heavy breath and a thumping chest.

Yet that was the manner of the Cyclic magics – they stole sanity and gifted the user a new world with their needs. The Serlian Cycle was everything – no moment, no power, no reality could escape its place.

Oh, but if Xilia cloud hear such thoughts! She inwardly cringed, then descended to the forest of candles in which Sambar worked, shuffling pen and paper. He looked up as she approached and paled dramatically as she fully entered the glen of light. He rose to his feet.

“What have you done to your eyes?” He searched frantically for a handkerchief. “They are ghastly!”

Amalia imagined they must look horrifying as she accepted his cloth and dabbed the blood from her strained eyes. How silly that she should turn to magic for fear of the dark!

“You must hide.” She told him. “The Brotherhood has at last attacked us, and now must be pushed back. They will attempt to claim the excavation.”

Her gaze was involuntarily drawn to the curtains stretched before the excavation, the terrible thing, where bones and all manner of ill things lay in many piles.

Sambar's fear was palpable. “I do not know where to hide.”

And the Brotherhood of the Sun would definitely leech him of all knowledge and dispose of him, due to his danger as an affiliate of the Temple of Serlios.

“I will stay with you until you are safe.” Amalia promised.

They concealed themselves behind the curtain amidst dark and dusty stones as the noises of siege became louder.

“We knew they would eventually grow too bold.” Sambar said, hunched against a large slab of broken an carved rock. His slender fingers knotted themselves. “I am likely dead if your Temple falls.”

Amalia gave comfort in her calmness, continuing to clean her face. “Should we manage to escape I'll send you to your homeland.

At his stubborn expression she said, “From there you may charter a ship anywhere you like. But it is the safest place for a simple scholar.”

“Not simple,” he murmured pensively, “I studied great powers.”

Amalia continued with her current stance. “But you should not have to attempt them, and I shall see to it that you are not forced. All power has a price.”

And it truly did, she thought. Followers of the other powers did not understand it quite so intensely as the Temple of Serlios – where each Priestess bore the price of her own workings – but all magic exacted a toll at some level.

They sat in a tense silence for what seemed forever, until the door opened. To Amalia's relief, when she poked her head out to observe, it was her own Temple – but arrayed for serious fighting.

At their head, Xilia was giving orders to fan out and place themselves about the room. This particular group of Priestesses was special, for they had armor and extensive training in combat and war magic. Spiked pauldrons framed their pale and painted faces, heavy cloaks sliding along the floor. Their garments were bulky and likely unsuitable for combat, yet Amalia knew as an outsider did not that their black steel bore deep enchantments for weightlessness and protection.

Xilia herself seemed a behemoth, for she had numbered among the War Priestesses for many years before her ascension to power. Her aura of command could cow the fiercest of men.

“The beasts and Warders will hold the upper halls.” She announced, sweeping between her warriors. “But for the moment, this chamber is our most important asset against the forces rising in the city. We take no prisoners. Unleash your reserves of power without limit and strike fear into the usurpers!”

She paused, gauntlet clenched around her staff. “I campaigned with our Azalchian center for many a year and though our branch has seen little conquest, I witness the potential for greatness within it.”

Sambar turned to Amalia with questioning eyes. “Wh-”

“Do not speak!” She hushed him. “Your safety is most guaranteed when fewer know your location. Remain here with me.”

The War Priestesses were fearsome, visages of terror in the underground pit. As they puffed themselves like birds of paradise their forms mangled and morphed to where Amalia could not tell if they'd noses or beaks, brows or horns, or talons in place of armored fingers. Their murmurs coalesced into a grumbling, growling threat.

The door shattered with golden flashes and in poured knights of the Brotherhood, followed by their priests. They surged forth into the knots of Priestesses, before the sheer crackling energy of Serlios shoved the knights back. Amalia witnessed Xilia slicing a fully armored man clean in half with bulging arms and the sharpened stem of her staff.

Sounds of bloodshed filled the cavernous hall with slick, gruesome voices and Serlian shrieks amidst male chants. Amalia kept a firm grip on Sambar's arm to prevent the Myrandian from becoming spooked and attempting to flee.

The Temple of Serlios had a supreme force and, without the aid of the absent Primate, encountered little difficulty in gaining the upper hand. But when the clash crested upon becoming a blessed massacre of the Brotherhood, a ferocious pulse shook the entire excavation chamber. Pebbles and dust rained from the ceiling as piles of bones and tablets clattered into a mess.

The floor of the excavation behind the curtain ruptured as a mass of scales burst through in an explosion of stone. The creature that emerged was enormous, a thick serpent capable of surging all the way to the vaulted ceiling before its tail slid from the cracked and ruined floor.

Sambar slid down the crumbling floor and grasped frantically for a handhold. “Amalia!”

She reached for his hands but their fingers barely grazed and the gentle Myrandian scholar fell into the darkness of the Valune underground. Hardly believing, Amalia held onto the incline for dear life as the monster swooped from above and into the Priestesses.

It was disgusting, with a black maw of teeth, and no wings, though it somehow hung suspended in the air. An unfortunate woman was taken by its fangs and rent into bloody bits. Colossal gray eyes caught the candlelight in an uncanny intelligence. Its tail upended the desks and sputtering candles and threw the chamber into shadow.

Air rushed about Amalia as the creature moved. Lights sprang from the hands of the Brotherhood, while the Priestesses had long since turned upon the serpent with spells that were easily deflected by its scales.

They were being pressed in tightly on both sides by the beast and the Brotherhood, and as Amalia brought herself to safe footing she knew that they could not prevail. And it seemed as though the Head Priestess had the same idea, for Xilia raised her hands and with a shout everything slowed.

The air felt like quicksand, and though the serpent was unaffected, all others in the space could not move with speed. Smog sprang from Xilia's gauntlets and the air about her sparked into azure flame. The floor smoked profusely, energy surrounding her in palpable ferocity. Her overbearing power – Serlios' embrace – gathered all of the Priestesses in the Temple into a cloak of courage and grace and Amalia felt herself snapped from the fabric of reality as her vision tore and wind spun her into pure blank whiteness.

She felt as though floating upon clouds and realized, _This is the hand of Serlios._ For all her strength, Xilia accepted that she was his conduit and had given her body over to his will – to pluck his temple from the reach of a monster. Amalia was spinning, unable to open her eyes to this in-between realm, and found herself crashing to stone, salty seawind, the crash of water, and the dawning sky.

They had landed upon Geulien Bridge. Priestesses were bleeding, attempting to soothe their birds and dogs of war, and a few Warders had broken circles in their hands. The wind swept hair into Amalia's mouth. She spat it out, trying to push it from her face. Her eyes ached. The mousy commander was bleeding out nearby, a group of women fervently trying to use the Mysteries to staunch the gashes across her face.

The largest cluster by far was gathered around Xilia, weakened and slumping to the ground. Though the power to work such magic did not originate directly from her, the Head Priestess's body could scarcely hold such energy all at once – she was barely conscious, eyelids drooping and head lolling to the side. Amalia approached, though she had not the skill to do anything to alleviate anyone's pain or exhaustion. Healing was rarely in the hands of Serlian clergy.

It was a nervous calm on the bridge. Xilia spoke softly. “Olenor will have the Constables fanning out to hunt us by now. We must scatter and conceal ourselves in the city.”

She then proceeded to name, in gurgling tones, all of the nobility and townspeople that had agreed to shelter the Priestesses when the time came. Some of the names, such as a seemingly nondescript carpenter, were surprising – those like Ulzenin were less so. As always, Xilia had worked above and beyond to ensure the survival of her Temple in tumultuous times.

“Head Priestess,” Amalia urged deferentially, “My brother is knighted by the Vakritch. Please allow me to bring you to the Fortress, where you can receive faster care.”

The upper-ranking women about her frowned, for Amalia was not well-liked, merely tolerated for her skill. A few of them seemed to raise themselves to decline, when Xilia's voice cut through the dawn coolness like a cleaver.

“Bring me to him. I also wish to have words with the head of their Order.” And that settled the budding confrontation.

The Temple of Serlios had fallen – to the monstrosity that emerged from the Valune depths as much as Olenor – and its denizens spread into the city before it had woken.

 


	5. Meet the Emperor

Merroq hummed thoughtfully from his seat in the office, glancing to gauge Daniven's reactions to the visitor.  
Saeryn, in full armor, dropped the item across the fine desk to emit its foul odor of death. Stricken, he looked to the Earl for an answer. On the desk reeked a rotting skin, taken from a Priestess of Serlios as the symbolic tattoos and paint attested. Daniven nearly gagged from the sight.  
“The Primate has driven the Temple of Serlios from Valune!” The Knight said worriedly.  
“No,” Merroq replied, “he has driven them deep within Valune – last night some dozen Priestesses were admitted into my home for safekeeping, and I'd wager the same occurred to many other citizens.”  
“My sister is a Priestess, and though I hide her, this was sent to me this morning... Olenor knows that she is my family, I'm certain.” Saeryn said. “I do not think she is safe with me.”  
“Likely not.” Merroq agreed.  
“Please take her in.” Saeryn plead at length, usually cold face warm with feeling. “She is my only family, and I simply cannot lose her.”  
The Earl's fingers were between the bars of the butterfly's cage, lightly stroking its colorful feathers. “I do owe you a debt for the other day, when the Brotherhood thought to defile my home. This shall be done. Tomorrow night, Daniven shall escort her from the Fortress – to be seen with you would be too risky.”  
Daniven's neck popped with the force of his looking up. Indignantly, until he locked eyes with the Knight who, for once, stared at him with something other than icy hardness or amused mockery.  
“I would be grateful.” Saeryn said, and the tone had a softening effect on his countenance.  
“Fine.” Daniven agreed reluctantly, unable to resist the look upon Saeryn's face.

 

The night was stuffy and silent about Daniven as he stood waiting in the Vakritch courtyard, looking about at the forbidding castle. From a door submerged in an alcove came Saeryn, followed by a woman – and a very bizarre one at that.  
For a moment, Saeryn seemed to gather himself for a sentence – perhaps of thanks – but unable to accept it, Daniven turned and began walking. Unnaturally loud footsteps followed, yet too cloth-muted to be those of Saeryn. The Knight did not follow.  
However, the Priestess was an unmistakable presence at his shoulder. Daniven could literally feel her stare sending ice water down the back of his neck. He was tempted to berate her, but she spoke first.  
“You are a Valinthian. Interesting.” Well, how was he actually supposed to respond to that? “Your energy is rather distinct – full of some fairly unappealing sentiments. It tastes somewhat like a rotten egg.”  
“You're joking, right?” He deadpanned, checking either direction before their steps carried the odd pair across a blackened street. Amalia dropped the conversation like a deadly fish and merely retained her curious regard.  
The sea's roaring grew fainter as they moved further inland along the streets, ducking behind obstacles in wariness of Olenor's men like common criminals. His nose wrinkled; he detested that.

\------------------------------------

No Priestess breathed the wet underground air in the Temple of Serlios. The jagged rock of the excavation occasionally rained pebbles onto the corpses of the women lost during the battle. Shadows swam along the stones and deeper darkness of a great hole in the cavern floor. The only light, sick and bright, sprang from above Olenor. He looked upon both the enemy dead and his own with little feeling but satisfaction. As he strode among them, another man kept his pace with no hurry. His hair was pale and his eyes were gray.

“This was work well done.” The Primate of the Brotherhood congratulated. “And now I believe Serlios shall no longer interrupt my work.”

He turned to the second man. “Did you find what you are looking for?”

“I did not.” The man said, easily avoiding Olenor's gaze with an air of disrespect. “I had hoped to capture the Myrandian scholar and use his expertise, but he fell into the underground and died. I do not know where to continue.”

Olenor huffed, but laughed nonetheless. “I received some news pertinent to your search.”

“What is it?”

“I do not know that I can tell you, friend. I feel lacking in payment of late.”

Finally the stranger turned disconcerting eyes upon the priest, drawing himself up into a coiled strength, and looked down his nose at the lesser man. “I don't pay for what is already mine.”

“You will pay if you wish to find it.” Olenor snapped, but still retained caution. A mutual dislike tainted the space between them as the light above the Primate filtered through broken women and equally fouled men. Both ignored the hole in the floor.

“What do you wish?” The stranger asked, but it was clear that he did not mean to make an offer.

“The Waleynien Earl is trouble for me, and a clear conduit through the Unvardin – both are obstacles to control of this city, and harbor illegal clergy. I want him taken care of.”

“He will be destroyed as soon as I receive my own ends.” The stranger demanded. “Where is the Valune power?”

“What will you do with it?” Olenor countered.

The stranger's form seemed to morph and shift for a moment, but was stifled and soon settled again into his fair and kingly visage. “I want to obtain that Valune artifact, board a vessel back to Valinthia, and burn Voryn Sthairn to ash. The Empire is rightfully mine.”

His glare seemed to approach unconditionally. “My sister may have failed to push Sthairn away, but I mean to succeed where she could not. Despite our superior forces we were defeated – but that is only because we had broken into factitious pieces.”

“Many blame you and your sister for such a thing. They curse the traitor Cambre who filled his sister's head with lies of sovereignty.” Olenor ventured.

“No such thing is true!” The stranger, Cambre himself, refuted. “I have spent nearly sixteen years in exile and had much time to ponder this. Do not doubt that we were in the right. Avilla would have been far better than our brother. He is at fault for the Islander invasion.”

The Valinthian brushed imaginary dust from his arm. “But that is of no import to you. I only want the object, and will aid your petty struggle in return. I have rid you of the Temple of Serlios, but have no prize to show for it. What steps have you taken?”

Olenor was clearly unhappy with the comment. “I have searched for the mask, of course, but without the Myrandian scholar there is little that I can glean without some captive Priestess, or the Valune themselves. The loss of the scholar is not my fault.”

Cambre puffed himself up at the slight. “It was not my temple that failed to win a battle. Had you not required my assistance, you could have easily captured him. The Brotherhood's magic destroyed what notes he had taken.”

“The scholar is dead.” Olenor insisted. “He fell into the underground. There is no further use to be made of him – and rest assured that the notes would not have been lost had I not been otherwise occupied.”

“With your own needs, no doubt.” The rightful Emperor scoffed. “But that does not change the facts – I hold forth a Temple and you are empty-handed.”

“Not entirely, I think.” Olenor said. “While you destroy Valune artifacts carelessly, I am covering your tracks. I came upon one of your kinsmen, and he is suspected for the crime rather than yourself.”

“Crime?” Cambre laughed.

“Of course! Murdering Islanders – that was you, yes? Destroying priceless edifices? That is indeed a crime here, especially to the Grand Justice, who takes great pride in the city's roots.”

“Do not the Unvardin as well?”

“That is another tale.” Olenor grimaced in the darkness. “The man I planned as your scapegoat has escaped. And because his brother is Unvardin, as well as his benefactor, they are not fooled by the ruse. Not in the slightest.”

“So you fool your allies, but not your enemies.” Cambre sighed, kicking stones with his boot. “You bring me no good news. Why should I feel at all compelled to obliterate this Earl? Our arrangement seems entirely one-sided to me.”

“That is not true!” Olenor exclaimed. “You are being hunted, Caveldon, and by the famed agent of Sthairn nonetheless! I am limiting the City Watch to the best of my ability, and they are his only foothold within the city.”

The Vele priest scowled. “And I do not come without aid, as you accuse. I've news for you, of where a Valune presence seems to be concentrated within the city. Yesterday eve we managed to extract from a sun spirit the location of this energy - and it may well be the object you search for.”

“And where is it?”

“You will learn as soon as the Earl's force is completely scattered.”

Cambre's jaw ticked in irritation. Before he could react, Olenor continued to speak. “Just remember that without my aid, you have no one in this city, and no means through which to find that power.”

“It is your city now.” Cambre said. “But you rise to power at my whim, Olenor.”

With that sentence, the blond man glanced up at the broken in door of the excavation as heavy boots stamped towards them. Four men shouldered their way inside, gathering about Cambre. They had a varied appearance, for they hailed from all across the Empire, with a common goal: to protect the Emperor with their lives. Their obvious Captain, a man of the Caronoth family, moved with enormous self-assurance.

“Your Grace,” He said respectfully to Cambre. Gray eyes took in the sight of the resplendently-dressed Olenor, who looked upon the warriors with no little greed.

“Yes, Isrophor?” Cambre answered, not unkindly.

“There is someone approaching. We saw no face, but he is unknown to us.” The Captain answered.

“The Evennoth do their job well, it would seem.” Olenor commented unnecessarily. “Good to know that the Emperor's bodyguard takes such care.”

Isrophor paid the Vele no attention, as though the man were a buzzing fly unworthy to even swat. “Shall we apprehend the intruder?”

“Do so.” Cambre said. The Evennoth exited with weapons drawn, dangerous as even the Vakritch, for they were the cream of the Imperial Knighthood – the absolute pinnacle of Valinthian soldiery.

“So the famed Evennoth joined you in your exile?” Olenor asked. “I did not know this.”

Cambre took a few sure steps to watch them leave. He fixed a rumple on his shirt. “Yes, they did. Can you imagine? One sibling dead, the other in captivity? I was the surest in the line of succession.”

“Indeed.” The Primate murmured.

More steps echoed, but they were not those of the Evennoth. The two men started, and intently waited – it seemed the intruder had evaded those bodyguards.

“And a good evening to you, Valinthian.” A smooth, low voice drifted across the blackness, sliding with a deathly articulation. “We've not had the pleasure of late.”

With no small derision and perhaps a measure of fear, Cambre crossed his arms at the newcomer. “It has been quite a while, Boggs. I'd hoped to prolong it, to be perfectly honest.”

“I'm sure!” The Islander laughed, floating closer with carefully balanced strides. “I believe your brother died when last we met, yes?”

“By your own fault.” The Valinthian accused, snarling. “Thorn that you are, dodging my steps across Valinthia. Would that I'd not left, but your scum had quite fanned out.”

Cambre did not back away from the man's terribly decreasing proximity, but indeed kept some space. “Pity that I do not know how it was done, or I would have killed those men on first sight.”

Olenor looked on with a strange blend of glee and sickness, perhaps enjoying his rogue ally's discomfort.

“Look no further than your friend, I say.” Boggs smiled, twirling his hat.

At the alarmed and betrayed expressions he made further declaration. “Oh no, not he in particular! But the same brand of spirits he kills for power proved a great aid to my Prince. We had to neither kill nor pay them a high price – the spirits of our land were content with alcohol!”

Owain continued excitedly. “We bought your Empire, Cambre, and had only to pay with wine. Such is the worth of Valinthia.”

The Islander surged forwards as though to attack the Valinthian, which he plainly wished to do, but halted immediately as the Evennoth returned. With a cunning eye to the skilled Knights and another to his prey, Boggs stood frozen – but it was not a scared stillness, rather a watchful and calculating pause.

Cambre snorted at the predicament, though he still fumed at the insult. “Isrophor, if you will dispose of this creature.”

The men came at Boggs quickly, but within the span of a breath the Islander had disappeared, leaving Cambre and Olenor staring into empty air as the Evennoth lost their target.

Frowning angrily, Cambre left, speaking as he walked. “Find that location, Olenor! If I return from the Earl's death with no payment waiting, you will be the next devastation.


	6. Another Thwarted Escape

A blank sky expanded above the docks, gulls fleeing the dark seawater in tempests of feathers and cries. Despite the bright sun the light felt feeble and thin, like a midwinter day rather than springtime. Many boats both small and large were tethered to the creaky wooden platforms, and many crowds were gathered about their business – workers unloaded cargo, Court officials checked their ledgers with hums and spits, and captains looked on in rough temper. Geulien Bridge hovered always in the corner, a testament to the ancient people.

“I think it's the Temple of Serlios that is killing those Islanders.” Surmised a dock worker to his companion.

“No! It's surely the Grand Justice, trying to keep us in line!”

An official murmured to a captain, “I think we've a Valinthian problem here. Don't be bringing any in on your ship without considerable recompense to the Justice.”

“Telus IV is here to take vengeance on the kin of Voryn Sthairn!” A beggar cried at the top of his lungs, the claustrophobic crowd pressing away from him. A Yellow ushered him away with a wry apology to the onlookers.

“Let's get you somewhere less public, yeah?” He tipped his hat to a Brotherhood priest.

A particular ship with pale golden sails had a very special man on board. He was golden in all coloring, broad of shoulder and thin of waist, but confident and handsome. He leaned against the walls on deck, watching gossipy passerby with good humor. The Myrandian crew and captain paid him little heed, but the people of Valune ignored his smiles and kind words with cold faces.

The man fixed his blue coat in confusion, but lit into a boisterous greeting when another man boarded the ship. “Daniven, my brother! It has been a sad time without you!”

Daniven, who had approached in an unknowable trepidation, felt the knot in his stomach ease at the sight of his brother's smile. Amlor had ever been the warmest of their family.

He accepted Amlor's embrace gladly. “I have missed home.”

Amlor gave comfort with a hand upon Daniven's shoulder. “We know that you left because mother died.”

His heart pounded. “I do not know what you mean.”

Amlor's aura did not deplete. “You always loved her the most, brother! It is no wonder that home had little meaning to you without her – Isden has supposed that when the assassin poisoned her you felt no urge to remain.”

Daniven's brow furrowed in perplexity, and his brother continued to speak. “The Islanders have been ever threatened by her charisma, and sent a man to poison Anai. They would likely have gone after Isden, but his security was far tighter than that of our overconfident mother.

So... no one felt angry with Daniven for any of the events? No one associated that with him, aside from perhaps his own grief? Such news lifted his spirits, bringing a glad smile uninhibited to his face and dropped years from his countenance. No longer would he have to remain a fugitive in this ridiculous and chaotic city! Sure, Sthairn may still control many cities, but both Caedron and Aerudon remained free – he could return home! And good riddance to fickle Valune!

“I should like to return with you.” Daniven ventured slowly and carefully.

Amlor clasped his arms, ever the affectionate sibling, and more charming than the shy Alviven. “Then it shall be so. I need only tell our youngest brother of Anai's passing and we will go together.”

Oh how bittersweet to look upon his brother, ever the favorite of his parents! It was commonly known that Anai had distaste for the darkness in the Coronel appearance, and admired Cevelt's colors despite even his villainous bearing. Daniven, always desiring some approval, had already failed as soon as he was born to Anai on a new moon – a time for superstition or luck, depending on whom one asked. He could not help some dislike, made even stronger by virtue of Amlor's pure personality.

“Step aside!” A yell came. The Myrandians on board the ship scuttled aside as a small group of the City Watch came on, led by none other than Owain Boggs.

“Let's keep this moving, shall we?” He said amiably, “Search the ship just to be safe. You are the captain, I presume? You are wearing a silly hat.”

The man sputtered at Boggs. “What is the meaning of this? We have cargo to unload here! This is a ridiculous tyranny of our ship!”

A Watchman held up the captain's ledger and Owain plucked it from his hands with his gloved thumb and forefinger. “This ship is Kiadul property, yes? And you have wines to unload, I can suppose from that unconscious gentleman on the prow – he is positively surrounded by empty bottles. Seems like you meant to charge a higher price so as to cover your own consumption. Droll.”

Amlor had grown visibly wroth at the sight of Boggs, whose physical description had become well known in the Empire after his exploits against their people. Daniven looked on in distaste.

“You can't do this!” The ship's captain said, confused, even quiet when angry – in a very Myrandian fashion.

“Rest assured I will do nothing save deprive you of shore leave in the city.” Boggs stated officially. “You will be able to purchase necessary rations for your crew from the comfort of your own vessel. The sale of your wines will be negotiated here as well. Once your business is tended to, this ship will leave immediately with no more or fewer passengers than when it sailed into port.”

“Why is that?” He demanded.

“Because we are closing access to the city at this time.” He said with no lack of courtesy, yet still not without menace. “We have a criminal present who is both murdering Islanders in the street and destroying old Valune tombs. Not only do you have a Valinthian on board, we cannot permit the perpetrator to sneak away on this ship.”

“That is bigotry!” Amlor stated.

Owain's gaze traveled to the two of them, yet he showed no surprise. “It is security, Valinthian. My dear Daniven, you will need to come along with me. Your name may be clear, but I still cannot allow you to go anywhere.”

Amlor started at seeing Boggs address Daniven by name. “Brother, you need not listen to him.”

Daniven glanced between them. Mouthing apologies to Amlor and feeling the sharp stab of disappointment, he grimly accompanied the City Watchmen off of the ship.

He overheard Boggs say, “Let's have a conversation, you and I.”

A surly guardsman prodded him in the small of the back with the hilt of his weapon. “Get going! No dawdling on the docks.”

 

* * *

 

 

The Sea spread in an endless frame to the portrait of Vakritch Castle, the long fall from the causeway plunging into a rocky bed of coral. A street of homes faced the walled drop on the city side of Geulien Bridge - blacksmiths, tanners, fisherman, and even a tiny temple to one of the more obscure gods - bulging with people.

A priest sold blessings by the low wall, a Constable flirted with the blacksmith's swarthy daughter. People gossiped in hushed voices, while more acceptable conversation voiced itself precariously loud. A Brother of the Sun - more specifically, a highly ranked abbot - flushed out the priest.

"Out, heathen! Back to your house of evil!" He gestured dramatically, sticklike arms spread wide in a threatening gesture. "Or the fury of the Triad will stifle the terror of your treacherous god!"

The onerous, heavy air belied the bright sunlight. Even the winds of the beautiful western sea - the Alathan Sea - brought only pity, not the previous tranquility.

The deep sky permeated the tall man's nondescript cloak, but did not touch his skin, nor did the breeze ruffle the baby-blond curls beneath.

Merroq glanced to and fro, the smile on his lips barred from ever-moving eyes, a dark and clever gleam marring his childlike features. The laugh lines framing the expression had tightened like a drum, almost disappearing in the man's taut caution.

A woman with a basket nearly barreled into him, but the slightest of movements set him free of the collision; she barely noticed him.

He passed a Constable on the bridge, the lanky Yellow's practiced movement and gilded tabard marking a high position. He keenly surveyed Merroq, shoulders slouched like some relaxed feline.

The Earl sped his step, ready to leave the man's sight. Senior Constable Vaeri's unofficial goal as an enforcer was to catch the infamous scandal at some vague offense, and for a decade he attempted to stay right on the man's heels.

"Point of honor, lad," He'd informed him - in a slinky undertone in a Palace antechamber - youthful smirk quivering in anticipation, "Who could contest the skill of the one man to catch you out?"

This did not serve as the intended threat, but rather an ego boost to the man who consistently evaded the Yellow's patronizing surveillance.

He couldn’t resist giving him a rough nudge in the back before melting into a thicket of burly men, moving towards the Fortress. With a riot at his back, Merroq innocently sent for a page to find Sir Saeryn.

The man entered the courtyard with a spry step, another knight at his heels. Both wore white livery, blades slung across wide shoulders. The other Vakritch reminded Merroq of an ogre, great hands at rest in wait for throats to smash.

"To what do we owe this pleasure?" Saeryn inquired politely.

The Earl raised his hood with slender fingertips, only enough for the two men to see who they spoke with. Saeryn's manner instantly switched from civil to friendly.

"Ah, I see.”

He nodded with a charming smile, observing two pages speaking to a wagon driver whose rickety transportation stood in the courtyard to await unloading. He thought nothing of the wind visibly pressing against it's heavy material covering.

"You make interesting friends." Commented his friend to the proud knight, then he turned to the Lord. "Such as this Daniven that the two of you have in common. It is well known that you are particularly close to the Valinthian, my Lord."

Merroq tilted his head suspiciously. "Word does travel, particularly here. What manner of gossip does a Vakritch knight know of a Valinthian gentleman?"

Sir Saeryn crossed his arms across the broad, muscular chest in discomfort. His features tightened as he looked in his knightly companion's direction, almost in warning. Merroq read the movement's subtext, but could not interpret what it revealed of the man's own ideas of the whom they spoke of.

“A rash boy, correct?” The Knight asked, with more discretion than expected. “Likes to avenge any insult. High on his horse.”

“That he is.” Merroq conceded. “But a better friend than you know.”

A harsh flapping noise, akin to the flags atop the fortress battlements, alerted Merroq that something was amiss. A yell and crash behind him; spinning around, he witnessed men jumping from the wagon in the courtyard.

Whoever chose to attack the Vakritch Fortress had neither intelligence nor tactical knowledge. Within seconds the world's finest knights were pouring into the courtyard, joined by Saeryn and Viole. Swords cut throats, impaled chests, decapitated limbs; a tempest of steel violated every man who jumped out of the wagon, and Saeryn grabbed the driver before he could flee.

Merroq fell into step beside Saeryn and Viole as they strode for the door. Pages and squires had begun assisting the knights in cleaning the bloody mess, as though an attack had no more bearing than a state banquet. Not one man of the Fortress had taken injury.

Saeryn had not a drop of sweat on him, and Merroq had not missed the way the knight had leaped headfirst into the fray. He gripped the filthy infiltrator by the back of the neck, easily keeping the struggling man in place. Saeryn's companion walked on the other side of the new prisoner, smug.

“I assume you've a purpose for coming to the Fortress, my Lord?” Saeryn asked, narrowing his eyes. They entered the main door – opened by a page – and into a thin hallway, the end of which sprung up into a round staircase. Merroq followed up the stairs, aware that the other Knight seemed upset with a stranger following deeper into the Fortress than necessary, especially after an attack. Even a poorly planned attack.

“I would speak with both the Master of this Fortress and yourself, if possible.” The Earl asked politely.

“Fair enough. Have you seen this man before?”

Merroq eyed the driver of the wagon. “I'm afraid I have not. But I believe you and I share the same suspicions, my good knight.”

The top of the staircase, after passing many tiny arrow-slit windows with terrifying views, framed a door of simple proportions. Carved into the wall, the face of the Valune patron god – Vunios, one of the old gods seldom worshiped – stared upon any who dared enter. In the past, the Valune people for whom the city was named had built the walls and streets in their vast society upon these very same shores. Vakritch Fortress was previously a Valune edifice, adapted to the needs of the knightly order. Only carvings and statues remained of the long-fled people.

The remnants of the Valune people – the Alathu – were no closer to their ancestors than a lizard to a dragon; the old Valune worked terrible magics, dancing atop towers and clouds in silver masks. Merroq himself hoped to never see one who'd survived into this age.

Saeryn knocked briskly at the door, and his friend took over restraining their prisoner, who'd begun shaking. When called to enter by a faint voice, the tawny-haired warrior entered the room. Merroq was waved forward.

In a stout armchair by a golden-glass window sat Sir Nadoc, Master of the Fortress, High Lord of the Vakritch Order, and the most deadly fighter in the world.

His lined faced held the cares of an entire castle, dark eyes set in a sharp-featured face. A tall, wide man, he wore the Vakritch white with a half cloak wrapped around his shoulders. A spear propped against the wall. Nearby a suit of armor was on display, shining silver topped by a helm crested with the rushing swirls of ocean waves.

Sir Nadoc did not stand. He was an older man, actually from Iratoc, possibly nearing sixty; but a hard person, accustomed to weathering life. He nodded to the newcomers. “Saeryn.. And Earl Merroq, I suppose?”

“A pleasure.” Merroq answered. “You look well, Sir Nadoc. However, my business may wait until more pressing matters are presented.”

“My Lord,” Saeryn bowed his head, as the other Knight brought the man forward and did the same. “The courtyard has just repelled an attack by unknown assailants.”

Nadoc frowned.

“We suffered no dead, no injured. The attackers are being disposed of as I speak.”

“And this man play what role in the attack?” Nadoc asked.

“He drove a wagon into the courtyard, in which men were hiding. No one wore any identification.”

The Master of the castle stood, and in that moment seemed to tower over the sky itself, so assuredly he carried himself. He was not a beautiful man, not a refined man, but his body moved with the grace of death. He stared down at the prisoner, arms crossed across his chest. The sunlight filtering through the rich window caught streaks of gold in his gray hair.

“What kind of imbecile sends a squad of men against a castle full of Vakritch knights? I will not tolerate lies,” He tightened his hands upon his forearms, wrinkling the white fabric. “nor half-truths. Sir Knight, escort this man below the keep.”

The man in question adhered to the request, bowing before leaving with the panicking driver in tow. Merroq could not blame the populace for its awe of the leader in front of him, wondering how such a man came to exist in a city like Valune.

“An attack in my own castle.” Nadoc grumbled, looking towards the window. “I'll not hide away like an old man while my Fortress is threatened!”

Merroq glanced at Saeryn before speaking. “There is a likely suspect.”

“Some fancy lord playing his games?”

“You could say that.” He let his hood fall. “Olenor plays some interesting games, I hear. But to get to the point, I would like to inquire about hiring some of your men.”  
“I doubt you could afford the price, son.” Nadoc laughed. “How many men?”

“Your entire Order.”

Nadoc stared at Merroq, deadpanning. “I find myself doubting your ability to afford the price for such a venture. What will you pay with?”

Merroq smiled assuredly, aware that the other man knew his meaning. “I can give you my aid, should the the Grand Justice take offense at your presence. I am proposing an alliance between two men, with our soldiers to concrete the gains, not some silly plot.”

His voice grew low and unreadable. Nadoc turned observant. “I will soon have a child as well. Think of that what you will.”

“Then I shall have time to consider this notion, Earl. Saeryn, you may escort His Lordship to the bridge. I do not look for your return until nightfall.”

Delighted, Merroq nodded his acquiescence. Now, here was a man who knew the game! Nadoc would let his knight feed him appropriate information in an environment further from his Fortress, a smart decision after suffering an attack. It was rattling, however, to learn that someone expected to further antagonize the Vakritch.

Merroq knew immediately that Nadoc meant for Saeryn to make the negotiations, allowing himself the opportunity to concretely answer at a later date. Time meant everything in Valune.

Walking alongside Saeryn down the wharf, Merroq had replaced his hood. Fishermen and sailors milled about, the occasional Constable poking into warehouses and ship cargoes. No Brothers of the Sun were in sight. Saeryn had changed his clothing into bland dark colors, worried at the implications of a Vakritch knight being spotted near to Merroq – many people knew him to be a wild card. With the possibility that Olenor and the Grand Justice might wish him gone, Merroq wanted no one to recognize him in the streets.

“Am I correct in presuming your High Lord has implied that you will make arrangements with me?” Merroq lowered his head to avoid catching the eye of a passing Yellow.

“You are.” Sir Saeryn answered simply, watching a flock of gulls over the sea. “But not to negotiate. I will hear you out. What are you trying to accomplish with the Order, My Lord? You are famed for your complex plots.”

“True. I worry for the safety of my close acquaintances should Olenor control the city. I wish to keep the City Watch in power, and protect the interests of my House. I am able to offer treatises with both, should your Order decide to combine our strengths.”

“And do what, then? Supplant the Primate? Fix our religious problems? I, for one, resent the inability to properly worship Velt.”

Merroq grinned. “I've basement of terrified clergy I could lend to the Fortress. But we all know that the Grand Justice has always been the true power in the city, yet he is increasingly decreasing whilst Olenor grows. I really do intend to help.”

“Nadoc will have to make a choice, Sir Knight,” Merroq said, somber. “and I do hope that he chooses me. We are in the process of gathering all the great powers of the city so as to cast Olenor out, and after this difficulty, I would hate to see the Vakritch decline.”

“Is that a threat, my lord?” Saeryn asked incredulously.

“It is a statement, my good man! Olenor and the Constabulary are picking off each of these powers individually – first the rivaling Temples, to avoid the use of magic against him, then he will turn to us! But he has not completely destroyed the Priesthood, and once we band together he shall pick off the loners before turning to our ragtag coalition.”

They'd wandered away from the seaside street, delving into the main avenue of the city, Saeryn deep in thought and clearly processing this for the first time. The Temple of Velt, to their left, looked empty. Someone had scratched a Brotherhood Sunburst into the door. Merroq tried to convince himself that he'd not steered Saeryn in this direction purposefully, but his inner conniver said otherwise.

“Sacrilege.” Whispered Saeryn, wide-eyed; for the first time, he seemed uneasy. “They did not defile the Temple of Serlios in such a way, surely?”

Merroq shuddered. “It is likely that they have. If the Primate's crusade doesn't stop, those offended gods will exact revenge upon the city as a whole.”

Nothing could help them if Serlios – especially – took the slights on his Temple to heart.

“Return to your Fortress.” He said finally. “Tell Sir Nadoc everything. I know he is a smart man, and a pious gentleman. We've more than unruly nobility threatening us.”

Sir Saeryn nodded to him, then left without another word. Good enough, for Merroq had yet another task that day.

He continued along the main avenue until it forked in two directions; the afternoon began thinning, softening into an evening that set the white clouds into billows of pale coral, gold on the horizon. Merroq walked along the street leading towards the southern end of the city, stopping once the heavy traffic loosened. A carriage clattered northwards, armed guards riding alongside on horseback – fine parties would surely be winding upwards into the night.

Merroq drew his cloak tighter, his memory twisting as he looked up at the old building. It was stone, common for Valune, and nothing special – a two story office, but he only concerned himself with the roof, and the difficult thoughts it brought to him.

He thought of Alviven's first years in the Unvardin, learning about going unnoticed through any crowded place, in which he played the role of mentor to the Valinthian. When Merroq himself had received his first job in the Unvardin, after training, he recalled standing atop that very building in the deeps of night. His own presiding “officer” - the Unvardin had only implied ranks, without names – had been his mentor, the man that taught him.

His mentor had died that night, accompanying him on that first job. The last peaceful memory he had of them together was standing atop that building, bathed in moonlight, grinning at the prospect of a city theirs for the taking. At the time his position did not merit learning the name of that strange, smiling man, whose face bore scars of countless difficult jobs. And as that wonderful, witty creature had met his death on that night, Merroq never did know; how ironic, that the most important person in his life was no closer to him than a stranger!

Merroq placed a small, unobtrusive stone against the wall of the building. No one would gaze any closer at such a thing, but a score of people would be affected by the calling. Few men had the power to bring the Unvardin together, but his fellows had begun trusting his words, even after the disaster of his youth.

Soon good men, not criminals but citizens, would coil upwards into the city like a hunting snake and prepare to answer his call at a moment's notice. Such a demanding duty might be seen as cruel, but that was the manner of all things. Merroq believed that they were a final line of defense for the city – the city in which his child would grow to adulthood.


	7. An Altercation

Merry flames popped in the candelabras of the room and warmed the rugs, curtains, and tapestries comfortably as rain pounded outside. On the table was spread an assortment of knives, Valune's paper money, and a faded and cracked map of Valinthia. A bag gaped open on the bed, half-full of clothing and other necessities. The dull thud of footsteps tapped an unsteady beat as Daniven paced to and fro, gathering items carefully and neatly packing them to conserve space.

He had thrown back the hood attached to his brown doublet, and tucked gloves into his belt. He had no rapier, sadly, but was just as deadly with small knives in the right situation. A perpetual snarl appeared on his nervous face at short intervals.

At length, Daniven dropped onto a sturdy table-side chair, face in his hands. An inked representation of Aerudon haunted him from the confines of the map. Someone had very precisely drawn the smooth walls and etched keep that he knew to be of pale stone.

No, he truly needed to return. In Valune, or anywhere else, really, he was only an outsider – at least in Aerudon he was less of one.

A small voice called from the door, startling him from his musings. “Daniven.”

He turned to find Alviven in the doorway wringing his hands. He wore the blue of the Unvardin, made dark by the water, and the young Valinthian's hair dripped and stuck to his face.

Daniven turned away. “You are back from a job, I presume?”

Alviven entered and sat at another chair, from which his brother could see him. “I am. People who commission us seem to believe their errands will be more successful if they demand they be performed in the rain.”

“A foolish notion to the masters, of course.”

Alviven shook his head modestly, then grew more serious. “Daniven, are you leaving?”

He exhaled deeply, pinching his temples. “Yes, I am.”

“I don't understand why – you only just arrived. If you left because of mother-”

“This is not about her!” Daniven barked. “This is about where I want to be. I thought I could live somewhere else, but it is not true.”

“You haven't even tried!” Alviven said. “You run an errand, but that's it. You eat, sleep, and live alone. You are not living in Valune, you are living in yourself, and that is why you can't stand it.”

“You don't know anything!” Daniven stood and continued to shove things into his bag.

Alviven dodged around him and stopped his brother with hands on his shoulders, unable to not grasp tightly. “I know more than you think! You only ever cared what mother believed about anything – and this is about her! She paid you no heed, so you pay yourself no heed! I know that you left Valinthia because of her. This problem is in yourself, not your surroundings.”

“It is not your-”

The door, which Alviven had closed behind him, opened sharply and knocked harshly against the wall with the force of its motion. Pasty and shivering Amalia stood there, the culprit of the interruption.

“We're busy.” Daniven snapped. She ignored him.

“The Earl needs both of you right now!” She said. Her robes lay askew on her body. “We have a problem downstairs that involves all of us dearly.”

They passed a number of people in the halls. The clergy to whom Merroq had given shelter were being led out by the back, and Lucienda was also being rushed out by servants – though she protested the entire way.

In the large foyer they came upon a tense scene. Inside the large door decisively stood a frowning and threatening gaggle of Brotherhood priests in their robes and mystique. What concerned Daniven, however, was that at their head an outlandish man had taken up leadership of the group. Not only was he obviously Valinthian – which could be told by his bearing and mode of dress, loose and quite easily wearing mail beneath his clothing – he had distinct pale hair. Daniven could not stop an instinctive swallow of discomfort. This must be the man working with Olenor... the Caveldon runaway?

The man, rather tall and broad-shouldered, at ease in his own body, aimed his terrifying person up towards the grand staircase. At the top, resistant in every fiber of his being, Merroq menacingly smiled at the intruders.

“You have a single chance to leave this city with your life.” The Valinthian man, a warrior, called up. “Pack up and immediately return to Waleyn within the week. If you agree, we shall spare your miserable house.”

Merroq laughed snidely and the shadows grew upon his face. This was the Unvardin in him, that had lingered dormant. “How about no? I've more claim to this city than yourself or Olenor, and I would sooner puke upon my own shoes than comply with that charlatan.”

“What will you do?” Merroq asked. His bright eyes pierced the cloak of danger that lay upon the room. “Will you kill me? Will you dismantle the architecture of this home? I think not.”

The blond Valinthian's jaw ticked. One of the priests glanced aside and caught a glimpse of Amalia standing upon the balcony with Alviven and Daniven.

“He aids our enemies right before our own eyes!” The Brother said to his fellows. The room became heavy with the intent of an attack.

In the same instant that the Brotherhood began to glow and raise flame, Amalia's voice rose above their cacophony like a tower and the priests stopped in a cut-off. They coughed and squeaked as their throats convulsed. Looking to Amalia, Daniven saw that she was sweating and her face burned dark red.

Heedless of his lone position, the blond Valinthian drew his longsword and advanced steadily up the staircase. The three men at the top drew their own weapons, but their attacked did not appear to be fazed in the slightest.

Although they all attacked in tandem when he reached them, the man moved through their deadly motions like it was nothing. A muscled arm knocked Daniven to the floor, and his head smacked against the marble floor and sent spots all across his vision. Alviven moved in and pushed the stranger's advance back before he could take advantage.

Merroq himself danced like the wind, armed with such steel that could slice ribbons of a man. He darted and retreated with a practiced step, and Alviven's quick and short attacks matched him in perfect tandem.

But however well they both fought, this man was clearly a master of his art, and drew a thin line of blood from Alviven's shoulder. The young man sucked in a sharp breath, knife clattering to the ground as he clapped a hand over the cut.

In slow motion, Daniven saw his brother's eyes widen and the stranger's sword draw back for a kill. He tried to surge forward, but a paralyzing pain struck from his head and trickled hatefully down his body.

Merroq threw his body against the man's back, knocking the both of them unceremoniously to the floor. By simply standing, the man dumped the smaller Waleynian off of him. He towered over them, having thrown three men to the floor alone.

The stranger's sword suddenly began smoking and sizzling, electricity leaping in arcs upon the steel. Surprised, he dropped it with a yell.

Amalia glared at him from the bottom of the stairs, the Brotherhood a bleeding mess behind her. With a noticeable shame, it registered upon the blond Valinthian's face that he could not prevail with the addition of the Priestess against him. His eyes darted longingly towards Merroq, but as they prepared to apprehend him, the stranger became unsiezable. His body twitched and morphed, skin becoming scales, and forming a large, drake-like creature.

Its tail smashed a column and decimated it and, rather than attacking the people, he evaded Amalia and tore the supports of the building. Daniven barely managed to avoid being flattened by a column, for Merroq snatched him up by the arm.

Then the roof bent in and collapsed upon the room's occupants, dusting Daniven's vision with clouds of dust. It entered his nose and brought a coughing fit, but he was trapped beneath a section of the roof with no light. A chunk of stone dug into the small of his back, and many scratches littered his arm where a falling rock had grazed it.

He pushed at the rock above him, gasping painfully. Water from the outside rains trickled between the cracks. Claustrophobia pressing in like the rocks about him, Daniven struggled against the stones, shoving with all of his might.

He managed to push out a a smaller rock and free his hand, grasping for a hold.

“Hold on!” A new voice called down through the barrage. “I'll get you out.”

For some long minutes, Daniven waited as this new person removed as many rocks as they could, and he helped by pushing them whenever he could. After some time, they grasped Daniven's hand and pulled him free from the rock.

Daniven blinked against the relative brightness of the cloudy, rainy day. The front of Merroq's home had been demolished, and only rubble remained. The clergy, and presumably the Earl's wife, and long since fled – likely at the man's own command.

He turned to thank the person who had helped him, and bit back a sound of shock.

“Oh don't be so frightened.” The man said whimsically.

This man was also Valinthian, but also pale, and certainly no warrior... Daniven realized he had made a mistake inside the now-destroyed manor.

“Thank you.” Daniven gasped out, overwhelmed, and bowed his head unable to look into that royal face. “My lord.”

“Yes, of course.” The Caveldon man said. “Why don't we get out of the rain and talk? I think we can come to an agreement.”

With only a look back at the rubble, Daniven nodded and went with his Emperor.

 

The room was fairly small, and lit with many candles and a deep fireplace. It was a rich parlor, dark, with red upholstery and rugs. The heavy curtains had been drawn, and two armchairs faced each other from beside the hearth. A bookshelf stood against the far wall.

In one chair sat Daniven, still wet from outside. He hid his shivers, but not his grateful love of the fire's heat. He had left his sword and knife at the door as a gesture of faith, and clutched the armrests. He could not deny his sickening mixture of excitement and dread.

Across sat Cambre. A scion of the Caveldon family. The displaced Emperor. The man was tall, but not particularly built like a soldier. He was graceful, well-dressed, and proud. Intelligence lay across his form. He looked upon Daniven curiously, perhaps glad of another Valinthian, or perhaps just wondering why he was even in Valune.

“Daniven.” Cambre said, testing the sound. “A good name. Not overused or common. Let us hear about you. You don't appear to be...”

He stopped, cutting of his sentence with a quickly hidden expression of distaste.

Self-consciousness twisted his stomach and made Daniven's face heat up. His words came out scarcely louder than a whisper. “My parents were from the Caedron family and the Aethre family.”

“Anai” Cambre asked, suddenly interested. “And Cevelt, of course. What a pair! No, I don't think such a heritage could make you impure, regardless of your appearance.”

Daniven couldn't hide his wince, but Cambre ignored it and continued.

“I knew them, of course. Both influential, both unique. But Anai had the real power, I think.”

He had no response.

“I heard something quite nasty, however.” Cambre leaned forwards. “They say that your mother has just recently passed, and that you _immediately_ left the country after. Isn't that odd?”

The man moved back. “Rumors, I'm sure. And justice is not my goal now.”

“You have a goal here?” Daniven asked, feeling as though his ribcage would explode from the tension.

“Of course I do! And it's incredibly important to you and I and every other Valinthian. Did you think I meant to fade into history while Sthairn pollutes my city? While he continues to terrorize the great families with the aid of his agents?”

Cambre seemed to have forgotten all about rumors of Anai, in favor of his own life. “I do feel somewhat responsible for the Islanders. It was our war that split the Empire, and allowed them to come. But I will have you know that my sister's cause was just. Our brother Telus was, in the words of your very own mother, “a worm unfit to rule a musty stump.” He was petty, lazy, and had no aims for our country aside from his own amusement. Avilla had every right in the world to claim the empire. He was strong, she was bold, and she even bested Telus in combat – but that is when Sthairn attacked. Her victory was tarnished.”

For so long, Daniven had heard only negative rumor of the war, all in favor of tradition and Telus, but to hear Cambre speak... It was only chance that had brought the Islander blight upon them. He could believe that the sister had the skill and power for it; his own mother had been far more overbearing and unconquerable than any man. He could now understand why his father would have stood by the Caedron family's decision to back Avilla.

“I want to reclaim my Empire.” Cambre said seriously. “And you are the one to help me do it – in the here and now – where you are more use to me than the armies of Cornel and Aelios. If you do this, I shall give you any reward in the world.”

Daniven thought long and hard, but only one thing could appease him. “I want to go home, and be freed from those rumors.”

“It shall be done!” Cambre twined his fingers together upon his knee. “We have much work, and it seems we shall spend it underground. I want you to find me a very special Valune artifact.”

 

* * *

 

 

“Traitors!” The Grand Justice proclaimed to the assembly, people of power and renown, and all in his own pockets. His hands grasped the podium before him tightly, as the throng of people below whispered and murmured convolutions.

“Our men were sent just yesterday to bring the Earl Merroq to justice in our courts, as you all know, as the perpetrator of the unrest in our city. He resisted arrest and used the power of illegal clergy to bring down his own home upon the innocent officers. I want every eye looking for this man! He is dangerous, likely armed heavily, and is with a number of Velt's priests, and a priestess of Serlios.”

The people were growing into a frenzy.

“In awareness of the darkness spreading through our city, I should like to bring a little light into our lives.” The Vele adjusted his glasses and gestured towards the crowd, where a figure broke away. “We can now welcome our own Primate Olenor as an adjunct to myself, in order to track down the spiritual crime happening in Valune on almost a daily basis.”

Olenor raised a hand to them and smiled.


End file.
